


A Pack of Lies

by therune



Category: DCU - Comicverse, The Flash (Comics), White Collar
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therune/pseuds/therune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new crime spree calls New York's White Collar unit to the task. But since the crimes bear the mark of the famous master criminal, the Trickster, the FBI decides to send in their expert on all things Trickster: Special Agent James Jesse. What follows are questions, doubts, more crime and a lot of lies.</p>
<p>Entry for Roguesbang</p>
<p>Art by hoples here<br/>http://petr-slavik.livejournal.com/793.html<br/>Check it out, it's awesome!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

The museum was quiet at night. The security guard at the camera hub, David Singer, sipped from his coffee while watching the monitors intently. While it was unlikely that something was going to happen – the Lammoglia Gallery had not been stolen from since one spectacular incident in the 30s, unless you counted someone stealing pens from the gift shop – he paid close attention. A new exhibit about Russian monarchy had opened a few days ago, displaying furniture, portraits and personal belongings of the royal family of old. The center of attention was a pearl necklace, a gift from the tzar to his wife on account of their anniversary. It was a magnificent piece of work with shining white pearls, a golden intricate clasp and in the middle, a red ruby, like a drop of blood in the snow. But David didn't have to worry about this one, the necklace was protected by a net of lasers, movement sensors and a guard walking past the exhibit hall every five minutes. Not to mention the cameras pointed at the exhibit itself through which he was watching it, the resolution almost high enough so he could read the note in front of it, written in cursive and blue. On another monitor, he saw the night guard walk into the room, shining his flashlight. Apparently everything was in order as the man left shortly afterward. David leaned back, thinking that tonight would be like any ordinary night.

Then, his cellphone buzzed. He glanced at the display – it announced a call from “Work: Mike's Cell”, a guard who didn't have shift today. He hoped that this wasn't a call about swapping shifts again because of some “hot date, I should show you a picture, she's fine, dude”, but his hopes weren't very high. “I sincerely hope you did not call me to trade shifts. If you did, please save us the work and hang up now.”

“Dude, no, I'm at the entrance, let me in, I forgot my keys in the locker.”

“You don't have shift today.”

“Why would I be here if I hadn't? I traded with the new guy, apparently I owed him or some bullshit. All because I flirted with the girl he had his eyes on...And I'm in front of a closed door without my keys, so let me in and let me punch my card, I'm already an hour late, they're gonna fire me.”

“Maybe I should leave you out there.”

There was a heavy sigh then a grunt on the line, then it sounded as if he swapped hands, fabric rustling.

“Come on, you can't do this to me, man, we're pals. I pay you back, I promise.”

Although David doubted that that would ever happen, the weather forecast for hell would show a drop in temperature and chance of snowfall first, he got up. The one minute walk to the door wouldn't cause any harm.

 

A shadow descended upside-down from the ceiling, a black figure with unearthly grace. The rope on which the figure hung was impossibly thin, almost as if wasn't there at all. Its hands went to its thigh, unsheathing something from a holster there. It looked a bit like a pair of compasses with a glinting tip. Trying to lift up or move the case would trigger the alarm. But the figure did no such thing, it cut a hole in the glass with the device, and then put the device back in its holster, and stored the glass cutout in its belt. The shadow's eyes glinted green as it twisted to the right to avoid a laser and then quickly grabbed the necklace, like a snake snapping forward to grip its prey. Immediately after that, the shadow righted itself and climbed up the thin rope. The end was attached to a glass window in the ceiling. As soon as the shadow had reached the edge and pulled itself up, it took the glass disc cutout, waited for a second and then dropped it. The sound the landing had made was negligible, but it had touched a laser on it s way down, and the alarms shrieked! A red light bathed the room in a creepy glow and footsteps were thundering down the hall on their way to the scene of the crime. The guards were shouting a mishmash of “Freeze!”, “Surrender” and “Get him!” but they were yelling at an empty room. The shadow was gone, and with it all traces of there ever having been someone there. The shrill cacophony drowned out the words of the guards spoken to one another, questions of why and how and what. Sirens sounded from outside, the police already on their way.

 

David had spotted Mike at the frosted door to the left of the grand entrance doors. He pulled his set of keys from his belt, planning a rant at Mike in his head, when the alarm sounded. Briefly conflicted whether he should give chase now or open the door first, he decided to spare the two seconds to get extra help inside. But when he wrenched the door open, there was no Mike. He couldn't have gone, what was going on? That was when he spotted the silhouette of a man, taped to the door.

 

When the police arrived, they took notes, photos, interviewed all guards and then stared puzzled at the room with the empty glass case.

“CSI's on their way, I want this whole room dusted for prints, I want them to find every little scrap of DNA in here.” the officer in charge yelled.

“But sir, this is a public museum, over a hundred people were here today, not to mention the last week or so. Besides, do you think that the thief left any evidence here?”

“The thief can't be that good, he did trigger the alarm. Every perp leaves something behind, and if it's just an eyelash, I want it found!”

“Yes, sir!” The other police men saluted and then made way for the arriving CSI team, already geared up, clad in their white hazmat coveralls and blue masks. The officer repeated his order, and when he was gone, ranting furiously at some poor rookie cop, the chief of the team rolled his eyes and motioned for his men to get to work. After he had worked for a few minutes, he paused. He put down the camera he had been using to document the crime scene. Gingerly, he lifted the glass disc and dusted for prints, and as he had suspected, there were none. Then he put it in an evidence bag, labeled it and stepped outside for a cigarette. It was then that he saw the taped silhouette – cardboard cutout, and he could swear that it was mocking him. He took a step back, murmured a “I'll be damned” and reached for his cell.

“Get me Agent Jesse on the line, now!”

 

 

In Chicago, a phone buzzed in an office building. There were only three people left on the floor the telephone rang. The taller of the men stretched at his desk and then picked up the phone. Just what he had needed, another case, after they had already busted their chops with this real estate fraud case. It was 8 pm here, and he had been close to just calling it a night and leave his boss and co-worker to fend for themselves. Or take his co-worker Sandra and leave the boss to fend for himself.

“Please be a wrong number” he thought as he picked up the receiver. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago bureau, this is Agent Hernandez speaking.”

Then he instantly held the receiver away from his ear as someone started shouting and demanding to speak to Agent Jesse this instant, and then followed a threat to Peter Hernandez' physical integrity and well-being, and then an insult to his mother. Peter grimaced.

“Boss, call for you, and the caller is not at all happy.”

“If it's my father-in-law again-”

“No, it's the police. New York, and they say it's urgent.”

“Fine, I'll take it in my office. God, it's that late? Why didn't you say something? Sandra, Peter, go home already. And tomorrow, breakfast and lunch is on me. I'll finish up here.”

Peter transferred the call to the boss' office, and gathered up his things. Sandra was waiting for him by the elevator. “I can't wait to get home and fall in bed already.”

“How romantic.”

“Come on, as if you have something different in mind. How are things going with what's-her-name?”

“Louise.”

“Yes, Louise, right.”

The elevator arrived on their floor, they stepped in and pressed the button for the underground parking lot.

“We're doing fine. Her exams are next week and she's going a little bit crazy right now. She even made a countdown, only 242 hours until I'm a lawyer, only 241 hours until I'm a lawyer, that kind of thing.”

“She knows it's going to take a lot longer until she gets her results back, doesn't she?”

“I certainly hope she does.”

They both grinned. The elevator was almost at their stop.

“That reminds me,” Sandra said, “Terry and I are going to have a barbecue next weekend, do you and Lily want to come?”

“Louise.”

“Yes, sorry, right.”

“Sure, I'd love to, I'll ask her first if she has plans, but I'm sure we can make it.”

“Great, the kids just love you, you know?

“Are you trying to trick me into babysitting in the future?”

“Maybe.”

The elevator announced their arrival with a cheery “ding” and they went out and to their respective cars.

“Good night, Sandra.”

“Night, Pete.”

 

While both of them drove to their respective homes, their boss had a long talk with the police.

At the end, he agreed to take a plane to New York.

After the conversation had ended, he grinned. Then he took a cellphone from his jacket, dialed a number and started to make arrangements. “Hi, it's me, and I need you to do a few things for me....”


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was blue, the sun was bright and Neal wore his new hat to work. He was still not used to his job as a criminal informant for the FBI, but he liked it much more than he expected to. Peter, Agent Burke, treated him sometimes as if he was still a criminal, one step or grab away from his next theft, but he didn't have such poor impulse control. Besides, his criminal past....and best friend Mozzie, who was a sort of criminal, had proven invaluable on more than one occasion. Really, Peter should be more thankful, with Neal as his criminal informant he had an alleged excellent forger, con man and thief on his side. And his colleagues, Diana and Jones liked Neal....they didn't trust him as far as they could throw him, sure, but they approved of him. Besides, he had a fixed place of residence, all the fine suits he ever wanted and no reason to do something stupid. Well, nothing too stupid. He had stopped to get coffee for the team and carried the cardboard tray to the office. Neal had stepped out of the elevator, but before he could take three steps, Jones walked past him, said “hi” and grabbed a cup. Apparently he was on a job Neal had been decided to not be privy to. Diana followed suit – at least she smiled when she greeted him and took her cup – and he was left standing with a half-empty tray and a look of mild confusion on his face. “Is it Neal-is-invisible-day? If yes, someone please tell me while I can still take advantage of it.”

“Let's thank god you remain in the visible spectrum, it's best for really all of us. I dread to imagine what an invisible Neal could do,” Peter said and went up to him.

Neal smiled brightly. “It's a neat idea, I should ask Mozzie if he has any gadgets that cater to this.”

“Please don't,” Peter said with a mock-grimace and reached for a cup. Neal spun the tray, “Trust me, you'll want this one.”

Peter took a sip from his newly-assigned cup and apparently approved.

“Do you mind telling me what's up with Jones and Diana?”

“Hughes decided they'd play chauffeurs today to pick up an agent from Chicago from the airport, he's been asked to come and consult on our new case.”

“Don't they trust your expertise? I get it why they'd want an extra pair of eyes watching me, but I thought you were inscrutable.”

“Agent Jesse is an expert when it comes to this sort of crime. A museum robbery, pulled of with a certain ….little trick. I trust you heard about the theft at the Lammoglia Gallery?”

“Yes, I have been asked if I had anything to do with it.”

“Neal?”

“Peter.”

“And?”

“Of course not! Gee, you cannot think that I'm suddenly responsible for any crime in New York.”

“One can never be too careful around you.”

“I'll decide to take that as a compliment.”

Peter gestured for Neal to follow him to his office. “The official report states that at around 8:06 pm, the alarm sounded at the gallery. The guards immediately rushed the place, but didn't see anyone. A single piece was stolen, a necklace.”

“A gift from the tzar to his wife.”

“And how would you know?”

“I went to see the exhibition last Thursday. It's in the radius, check the anklet data if you don't trust me. That was a beautiful piece of jewelry, and undoubtedly very expensive.”

“Nothing was damaged, no one was hurt and they didn't find any trace, except a glass disc cut out from the case the necklace was in.”

“Impressive.”

“The impressive part is yet to come: the guard watching the monitors went outside for a minute to let a fellow guard who was late for work in. Except, there was no guard. When he opened the door, there was a cardboard silhouette taped to the door.”

Neal started laughing.

“This isn't funny.”

“I disagree, this is genius!”

Peter gave him a stern look, which got Neal to quiet down. He was still grinning.

“Anyway, the police checked the call he got – the cellphone of the guard had been stolen, of course – and the call came from somewhere near the gallery itself.”

“What about the camera? It must have still been recorded, even if the guard wasn't watching in real time.”

“That's the thing. The CSI team went to collect the DVD, but there must have been a technical error, since the recording only shows black since 8pm.”

“Someone tampered with them.”

“Obviously, the thief must have sneaked into the camera hub while the guards were all at the exhibition room and deleted the evidence. And then left before the cops showed up.”

“Must have been quite a feat.”

“Yes. But the lead CSI at the scene had been transferred from Kansas recently, and this crime closely resembles a string of crimes there – robberies with no violence, no casualties, and minimal damage. Plus always a little trick involved.”

“No.” Neal said suddenly.

“What?”

“You're talking about, no, it can't be!” Neal half-rose out of his seat, eyes shining like those of a kid on Christmas. “Peter, you can't mean the Trickster!”

“I do.”

Neal stood up and paced through the room, a wide smile plastered on his face. He ran his hands through his hair. “This is brilliant! This guy's a legend! He robbed a bank with a squirt gun once, stole a painting from the French embassy, and people claim he's behind the missing copy of 'The Concert'. This is amazing!”

“Neal. Neal, sit down. You're not supposed to admire art thieves.”

“But, he is a master, what he does are works of beauty. He's phenomenal!”

“He's a criminal!”

“Who cares?”

“I do. We at the FBI do. You should do, too, since you're now working for us.”

“I guess so. It's just – the Trickster is a legend. Everyone knows the story, knows what impossible things he did.”

“That is why we have called in our expert, he's an agent from Chicago, here on personal request from the big boss himself.”

“Hughes?” Neal asked in disbelief.

“His boss's boss.”

“Oh, so the big boss. Must have been important. Who is this guy exactly?”

“Oh, you're gonna love this: his name is James Jesse, also known as-”

“The Trickster?!”


	3. Chapter 3

Jones knocked on the door. Neal rose up, nervous and excited. Peter had refused to divulge any further information, had only done a mysterious – at least Peter believed that it was mysterious – smile and told Neal to wait and see while he himself read through the CSI reports for the crime – they were slim and there was not much to read, so Neal thought that Peter was just doing this on purpose to annoy him.

Next to Jones and Diana was a man. This had to be him.

The man stepped inside and Neal seized him up.

He was tall, taller than Neal and just a little bit shorter than Peter. His hair was blond, he had blue eyes behind frame-less glasses and he wore a dark blue suit, a black coat draped over his arm. He looked just like an average guy, just hitting 40. Neal couldn't have been more disappointed.

Agent Jesse wore a small, polite smile and stretched out his hand to Neal.

“Hello, Mr Caffrey, I'm James Jesse.”

When Neal looked at him dumbstruck for a second, a look of concern grew on his face.

“I'm sorry, did I pronounce that wrong? First impression and I've messed it up.” He shot Neal an apologetic little smile. Neal came to his senses and grabbed his hand.

“No, sorry, I was just distracted. I'm Neal Caffrey, CI.”

“I know, Agent Jones has warned me about you, but I'm sure he was exaggerating.”

The handshake was....normal. Neal expected something, just anything that told him that this man was more then he seemed, but there was nothing. He was just...normal.

Peter stood up to meet him.

“Agent Jesse,” he greeted him.

“Agent Burke,” Jesse responded, and shook his hand.

“You have been filled in on the case?”

“Yes, I was emailed a copy of the reports so far and I read them on the flight over here, but I'd like to see the crime scene for myself, if you don't mind.”

“No problem, we were about to head there ourselves. Neal, let's go.”

Neal tried not to stare at Jesse too obviously, but he must have failed, because Jesse turned around.

“I take it you have heard about the Trickster thing. It's probably confusing, but I'll explain it in the car, no worries.”

“Can't wait to hear it.”

Neal's hand was already on the door of the Ford when Peter cleared his throat.

“Can I still call shot-gun?” Neal asked.

“Neal.” It was astonishing how much Peter could say with that one syllable. Right now it meant, stop being childish, please don't embarrass me in front of the agent, I will so ground you when we get back.

“It's not problem really, wouldn't want to mess with your established routine,” Agent Jesse said politely. Neal was disappointed at his manners, he expected charm and charisma just bursting out of the man, expected sparks flying when he touched things, and doors already opening themselves before him. Well, not exactly as extreme as that, but he was seriously underwhelmed. Agent Jesse seemed nice and had done nothing to antagonize Neal....except by not living up to his imaginations. Which was immature, and not his fault. Neal should probably apologize.

Once they were all in and Peter had started the car, Agent Jesse began to explain.

“You're curious and/or confused about this whole Trickster thing, right?” It was evidently a speech rehearsed and told many times, “so, am I the Trickster? Yes and no. I am who the Trickster once was – allegedly, mind you, I didn't rob a museum with a rubber chicken and confetti, not really – but the whole thing has gotten out of hand. There was this unsolvable crime, a stroke of genius, and it became attributed to the Trickster, to me. The papers ran with it, they created the name and the story. So, the Trickster name gained a certain reputation. I was found innocent of that robbery, but whenever crimes like that popped up and the police found no suspect, they returned to me. No matter whether I was in the same city, or even the same country. Once, a police officer insisted that I had stolen a Van Gogh while I had been in hospital after a motor cycle accident, hooked up to a heart monitor and with a broken leg at the time of the crime. That's how far it grew. And not just cops did that – criminals liked to blame every impossible thing on the Trickster. And things they didn't want to be associated with, whether they pissed off some other criminal or were confronted by cops, it was always the Trickster's fault. And the legend grew and grew. I had long been out-shadowed by a name that had gotten out of hand. And then some day, I decided I had enough and worked my way up to the FBI, so that I could finally start to clear these cases that had haunted me. I became an expert on all things Trickster – which is ironic, I know – but I figured I was the best man for the job.” He smiled gently again, aware of the absurdity of the situation.

Neal tried to wrap his brain around that one. If this was true, then the legend fell apart. It was a shame because that had been such a good story, the Trickster had been a hero to people like Neal. Neal knew to take stories like that with a grain of salt, as criminals were rarely trustworthy sources of information – except himself as a CI now, of course – but he had wanted them to be true.

On the other hand, blaming crimes on someone else was nothing new, and Neal had not only seen it done, but in fact had done it himself once. But his “victim” has been a drug smuggler who had found wads of badly forged cash in one of his shippings and had promptly been arrested for that.

“Are you sure you're not a criminal mastermind hiding right underneath the FBI's noses?”

Jesse laughed. “If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I could almost legally pay for the stuff I have supposedly stolen.

“It's a pity. The Trickster's kind of one of my personal heroes.”

“I can imagine so, a thief in the night, unstoppable, extremely clever and with the ability to pull any crime he ever wanted – if you were so inclined, why wouldn't you love this man? I have received tons of stuffs from admirers over the years, from teddy bears to folk ballads dedicated to me and well, a lot of letters from a lot of young women.”

“Let's not glorify criminals, not around Neal here, he's easily suggestible.”

“Hey!”

 

The rest of the time until they arrived at the museum was spent with Neal asking Jesse jokingly if he had done this or that crime, including a few not even Jesse had heard of.

They arrived at the museum just as the last news van drove off, they had caught a lucky break. Inside, they split up, Peter went to talk to the guard who had been lured away by the phone call while Neal and Jesse went to see the crime scene for themselves.

“The reports mention movement sensors, the cameras, a laser grid and the guard walking by every few minutes. Even if we don't take the the camera into account since it has been tampered with, this leaves the thief only an extremely short time window, depending on the guard rotation and how long the distracted guard would take, maybe only a minute or two. That's impressive.”

Jesse looked at a few close-up photos of the glass case.

“This glass has been cut, using some tool.”

“Something with a a diamond,” Neal suspected.

“Yes, but what? Since the thief can't have come here with a tool box, it was probably specialized equipment, maybe customized, we should have a look into this area.”

Neal walked over to the entrance the guard would have used to come into the room and looked around. Then Agent Jesse raised his voice, “Excuse me, please, could we turn on the laser grid for a second? And someone turn off the lights.” His wish was granted.

“OK, nobody move now.” Jesse approached the scene carefully and drew an object from his coat pocket. It was a spray can, he intended to make the lasers visible. He did so, and Neal could see the net of lasers. The first few could have been overcome by a limbo amateur, but the net became more and more complex the nearer it came to the display. Jesse stopped once he reached a laser and looked around. “I assume no one spots an obvious flaw or gap? I suspected as much.” Neal couldn't see any point through which a thief might have reached the display without breaching one of the lasers, and he had experience with that. It seemed impossible.

“I trust you have separated the alarms from the circuit, we wouldn't accidentally cause the police to show up for an encore.” Jesse said again in a polite manner, that was close to but no real question.

Someone confirmed it.

“Good,” Jesse answered and stepped through the laser at hip-height and triggered the alarm. Red lights flashed and the alarm sounded. At the display, Jesse once again used his spray can and looked at the lasers. In the red light, framed by the red lasers, he looked creepy, especially since the light reflected on his glasses. Then he grinned which Neal could barely make out – it looked frightening under the circumstances – and looked up. “Aha! Thank you, gentlemen, you can put that out now.” After a few seconds, the alarm was silent and normal lights returned. Jesse pointed to the ceiling above. “May I introduce you to the point of entry?”

 

The guard, a Mr Singer, was sitting on a bench in the hallway, pointedly not looking in the direction of the main door where he had been tricked. He looked very pale and his fingers clutched a mug from the museum's gift shop.

“Mr Singer? I'm Agent Burke, FBI. You were on duty last night?”

Mr Singer let out a thin laugh. “Of course I was, you know I was. I'm the laughing stock of the entire museum, I'm gonna get fired over this.” He took a shaky sip. “Imagine that, a trained guard, never done anything wrong, I've been here for 12 years now, 12 years, and it's over in one night.”

“Can you tell me again what happened?”

“I already told you guys.”

“Please, Mr Singer, we don't blame you, just let me hear what happened.”

“I was just doing my job, just doing what I normally do. I'm watching the camera when I get call from Mike. It's his cell, I pick up, and it's him on the line, he says he's locked out. I knew I should have been suspicious, it was after the night shift had started, but it's Mike, he's either late or trading shifts because of this and that.”

“Did he have shift that evening?”

“No, and so I asked him, but he said he traded shifts with some newbie over a girl – that's Mike for you – and now the new guy called in the favor. Mike's already on probation, I didn't want him to lose his job, not in this economy, so I left. I was gone for 1 minute. Not more. I saw him at the door over there,” he pointed in the direction of the door, not looking that way, “that's when the alarm sounded. I thought I'd let him in, more manpower, but then I opened the door, and he wasn't there. He hadn't been there at all. I don't get it – how could I mistake that thing for Mike? Or the caller – I swear, Agent, on my life, that that was Mike on the phone. It was him!”

Peter left the distraught guard when another guard came over and coaxed him to go home. Following an impulse, he went over to the door. Next to the main glass door were frosted glass doors on each side; Peter went to the left one, mindful of the little CSI stickers and tape. In his mind, he pictured the scene. Then he closed the door and saw the silhouette. Even in daylight, it looked surprisingly realistic. If he hadn't known... no wonder the guard at night had never doubted that that form was his colleague.

“Detective?” a voice behind him asked.

“Agent, if you don't mind. Can I help you with something?”

“I'm Larry, Larry Cole, I'm new here. Dave is a great guy, I swear he has nothing to do with this, he was shocked by all that. He's not under suspicion, is he?” The guard who had been talking to Mr Singer earlier was talking. He was young, short and his face was speckled with freckles.”He told me about the phone call he had that night. I'm the guy Mike allegedly traded shifts with, but it's not true. Ask Mike for yourself, we had nothing to do with this.”

“We will look into that, Mr Cole, but I don't think poor Mr Singer was involved. The thief was a pro, and Mr Singer stepped right into his trap.”

 

“So, someone came down from the ceiling – again without tripping any alarms and unseen - abseiled himself from up there to the display case, cut a hole, grabbed the necklace and climbed back up, all in the span of a minute, then got into the museum again and tampered with the security recordings before leaving unnoticed again while the police were on their way or already here? That sounds like a fairy tale, the kind they tell in prisons,” Peter said after Jesse explained his findings.

“It doesn't need to have been one someone.”

“There were two?” Neal asked.

“I think we can agree that it's pure fantasy to think that one person pulled this off.”

“It's not just fantastic, it's impossible,” Peter agreed.

“We know that the guard who supposedly called is involved somehow. Either his story is true and his cell got stolen which meant that he met the master thief, or he lied and called himself and is thus working with the thief. Speaking for his claim is the silhouette cut out – why not just show up in person if he is involved? Speaking against it is that the guard with the cameras, a David Singer, swears that he talked his colleague, not a stranger, that he'd recognize the voice and manner in which he speaks. Have you talked to him already, Agent Burke?”

“Yes, he just went home. I just heard he has to come next morning to collect his things, he's been fired.”

“Poor guy, he goes outside for one minute to do a favor for a colleague, and then the museum gets robbed.”

“Plus, I don't think he would have been able to prevent the theft anyway. It would have taken him over two minutes if he ran here himself, and the other guards patrolling wouldn't have been here quicker. The only thing that he caused is that there is now no witness to the crime. And at this point I'd sincerely doubt that the thief would be easily identifiable by camera.”

“We would have something,” Peter interjected, “though little as it may have been.”

“I don't think that the general height and build of the thief would help us considerably,” Neal countered.

Jesse looked up. “The size of the window narrows it down a bit, I don't think we're looking for a bodybuilder or wrestler.”

“I sent the remaining CSI tech up there to look for any clues up there,” Peter announced, “if any of you care to join her up there.”

“Oh gods, no, I prefer solid ground,” Jesse refuted.

“You're afraid of heights,” Neal realized. Jesse looked a bit uncomfortable and pale at that.

“Yes, I don't like heights. I can manage being up high in buildings, but I'm not one for roof chases and the like.”

“What do you do if a suspect starts to run upstairs?”

“Call my agents and have them pursue. There are a few perks to my position, I can order others around.” He grinned warily, “I'll trust your CSI tech to do his job.”

“Her job.”

“Sorry, her job,” he corrected. “Has anyone talked to the supposed caller yet?”

“I sent Jones and Diana. They're the ones I get to order around.”

“Nothing left for us to do here then, “ Neal said, “mind if I have a look around? I didn't look around the whole gallery last time I was here, and now is a perfect chance.”

“Neal.”

“Let me guess, that means 'no'?”

“Correct. Go back to the car, we're driving back to the bureau where we can look at the files of the employees and do some research on the place. “

“I call shot-gun.”

“Neal!”

“That's alright. I'll hang around here and talk to the tech once she gets down, speak to a few people in person, that sort of thing,” Jesse said, and then fetched his wallet and pulled out a business card. “My cell in case something comes up. The bureau put me up at the Marriott, room number 305.”

“You get the Marriott? You don't wanna know at what kind of dump the bureau try to dump me.”

“Perks, Mr Caffrey.”

“Call me Neal.”

“Okay, but then I insist you call me James.” He smiled politely.

“Let's go, Neal, I have a lunch date with Elizabeth and I do not want to be late.”

As they drove off in Peter's silver Ford, Neal reflected that he had underestimated James. The man may not be a masterful world-class thief, but he was smart and competent. But he found that he was becoming more and more interested in who had pulled off this impressive theft.

 

Jones rapped on the door to the apartment of a Mike Foreman. “FBI, Mr Jorgensen. We have a couple of questions.”

The door was rapidly opened and a “What the heck now?” was bellowed. Foreman was in his late 30s, had black hair – now very disheveled – and blood shot eyes.

“We have a few questions about the museum robbery,” Diana repeated.

“Again? The cops knocked on my door at midnight, almost dragged me to the station before I even realized what was going on, so let me say it again: I was here last night. My cell was stolen, I reported that 3 days ago, no help from the cops then. I did not call anyone, I didn't have to work last night and if I was a museum thief with millions stashed away, I wouldn't be living in this tiny apartment where the walls are so thin I'm involuntarily learning Ukranian thanks to my next door neighbors.” He talked faster and faster, louder and louder, and his face was getting red.

“Can anyone cornfirm that?” Diana asked calmly.

“Yes, the same person who could this night, my girlfriend Julie,” he turned his head and shouted into the apartment, “Jules, come and say hi to another pair of cops so they'll believe you exist.”

“Are they prettier than the last ones?” a female voice asked.

Mike looked at Diana, than at Jones. He opened his mouth, closed it again as he thought about something, then shouted back “Yes and no, I'll let you decide which is which.”

A woman appeared next to him at the door, wrapped in a dark blue bathrobe. “I'm Jules, hi.”

“Can you confirm Mr Foreman's alibi for this night?”

“As we told the other cops, yes, he was here with me. Mike had nothing to do with this, he's a big softie on the inside.”

“Hey!”

“It's true, “ Jules said. “we were doing a marathon of Dr Hudson, MD, and just as we were watching the episode about Christian's mother having heart surgery, the police came to our door.”

“No way, that is one of the best episodes of the entire season, even better than the one with Sam's long-lost half brother Adam returning.”

Diana shot him a look. “Didn't peg you for a fan, Jones.”

“It's quality tv,” Jones defended himself. Jules smiled at them. “That's all, thanks for your consideration.”

From next door came a loud voice, chattering something they didn't understand.

Mike groaned annoyed, Jules smiled apologetically.

As they left, they could hear Mike yell “Zamkneseh, Yuri!”.


	4. Chapter 4

The Manhattan Museum of Art held an opening of a new exhibition, showing off baroque pieces from all over the world. The rich and famous were gathered there, champagne flutes in hand, wearing diamond earrings or cufflinks, laughing and talking. Everyone was there, from old money to new money, sports stars, actors, business tycoons and that kind of celebrities that are famous for being famous. The people who had graciously lent their pieces to the museum were posing for a photograph; Emilio Saltarino, an Italian aristocrat or at least as aristocratic as you can be nowadays, shook hands with the curator, Jin Xue-Mc Millian. They all smiled as the camera flashed for the 25th time when suddenly the lights cut out. Some let out a surprised yell while others were telling everyone to just stay calm. The curator was worried sick and the guards on high alert, but after a few seconds, with a great whirr, the electricity and with it, the light came back. All the private donors looked at their pieces and sighed in relief when they found their contribution still at their rightful place. Jin hissed to the guards to have the whole museum checked and don't they dare to come back if one piece was missing. The party had ground to a halt, but a few people were trying to get it back on track. Mr Saltarino told a joke to a film star he had been talking to previously when he paused. “Scusi, but didn't you wear a collana, a...what's the name, a necklace when we last spoke? I'm sure I saw one, it was very pacchiana, no?”

The film star rose her hands in terror to her neck, and let out a piercing scream when she discovered that the necklace was gone. Another woman yelled “My pearls!” and then man declared that his emerald tie pin was missing. Soon, there was panic amongst the guests. Jin tried to calm down them down, but people were clutching at their belongings, accusing others of having stolen their belongings and then the donors were demanding to have their items back this instant.

“Signora, I don't like doing this, but I must insist to have my precious wardrobe back.”

“Oh, give me a break, as if anyone could make off with that monstrosity unnoticed.”

Mr Saltarino gasped. “Signora, I-”

“Give me a break! Take your closet if you want. Maria!” she yelled at her assistant, “Mr Saltino is leaving with his ugly closet, note that down.” She turned back to her wealthy guests, and her voice and expression turned soft again. “Oh no, don't leave, I'm sure it just fell off, surely it's nothing, oh, is that an earring I see on the ground? See, it's nothing.”

But then two women lunged at it, claiming that it was hers and how dare she, get your hands off you harpy. Then all hell broke loose when a pearl necklace was spotted on the floor, chain having become undone and all the pearls were coming loose and rolling over the floor. No fewer than 20 people found themselves on the floor, either trying to grasp at a pearl or having stumbled over one.

Jin sighed and threw herself into the fray, calling all the guards to help her in her endeavor

Only about half an hour later did it occur to someone to call the cops.


	5. Chapter 5

The White Collar Unit was only called the next morning after the curator had discovered that - amongst the damage done by the guests and the damage done to the guests and her staff – someone had indeed made off with three paintings and a small statue. But with all the commotion, it was almost impossible to tell who had been where at what time. Peter and Neal arrived at the scene while Peter had sent Diana and Jones to go through the guest list and interview the guests who had been there that evening. Neal had wanted to go with them, but Peter forbade him. They had talked to the curator and their assistant when James stepped out of a taxi. His suit was a bit rumpled and he was gulping coffee from a huge styrofoam cup as he walked over. “So sorry, I forgot to set my clock and cellphone to the new time zone and missed an hour. Oh dear, this was so unnecessary.” He looked genuinely remorseful. “But I caught up with current events and I just talked to the tech guy at the bureau who was examining the videos. And guess what.”

“The relevant cameras only show black starting with the full hour.” Neal tried his luck.

“Correct. It's likely it's the same guy who stole the necklace from the gallery. He's responsible for the power out, he likely caused the commotion and made off with the items in the confusion.”

“At what amount of money are we looking? Just hypothetically, if your guy had a good fence.” Neal inquired.

“Well, if everything wasn't hot and therefore nigh impossible to sell at all, I'd say about 8 millions.” Peter answered.

“That's impressive, for two nights.” “

“That would be impressive for two years.”

Jesse finished his coffee and dropped the cup into the next waste basket.

“What have you found out so far?”

“There were 50 guests at the party, 23 caterers and waiters, 30 guards and 4 people from the museum staff.”

“That's over 100 people, it's going to take ages to interview them all!”

“We already sent Diana and Jones to go after the guests.”

“Why the guests?”

“Why not?”

“Have you taken a look at the guest list? With people that illustrious it would be social suicide to risk something while so many people are watching. Plus, they were watched all the time, it would be hard for one of them to sneak out, go to the video surveillance and mess with the recordings. I think we should go for the staff and guards first, they're more of a priority.”

“Do you think the thief was there in disguise?”

“Quite possibly. The entrance camera hasn't been tampered with as far as the tech people could say, so no one came in that way. The guards didn't notice anyone sneaking in, although that doesn't mean that no one did. It's safe to assume that the thief was responsible for the power out, so he had access to the building by that point. And I bet that he had something to do with the commotion during the party, you couldn't depend on a group of people turning into a frenzied mob.”

“Clearly you're not from New York then.”

“Even if the thief hadn't been inside then, the people present are leads for now. We'll check their alibis and see if something comes up. In the meantime, we can take a look at the scene itself.”

Jones exited the apartment of one Linda Lessing, CEO of a pharmaceutical company, and let out a huge breath. “The coin toss was your idea,” Diana reminded him.

“It wasn't stupid while I had a 50:50 chance of winning, but I'm starting to regret it. That woman is a lion.”

“Any news?”

“Turns out she fought for a diamond earring with Michelle Simpson.”

“That Michelle Simpson?”

“The one and only. She claims that Simpson will remember her. And that it really was her earring, so she'd be grateful if we could get it back from 'that darn she-beast of a woman'.”

“And after the fight?”

“She went to a 24-7, bought a steak for her eye – showed me the receipt – and returned home where the doorman and her husband confirm her arrival. And since she didn't come loaded with paintings, it's unlikely it was her.”

 

“That bitch took my earring and she even claimed it was hers. It was too classy for her, that mutt. Look, she scratched up my face, and my arms. There is a tear in my new Versace dress. See? I've been so violated, it's unbelievable. Tell that dreadful woman to give me back my earring, it's unbearable!”

Next to her, her fiancé grasped her hand and assured her he'd buy her earrings ten times better, and a dress ten time more beautiful. He also confirmed that they both left together and had been at their mansion since last night. The chauffeur could surely attest to that.

 

“Thomas, darling, it's the police,” Elizabeth O' Neill let them into their hotel room. It wasn't the president's suite – that has been taken by Mrs and Mrs Cartwright whom they had interviewed before, but it was close. “So sorry about the mess, we didn't allow house keeping in, we simply had to sleep off that dreadful party.” Mrs O'Neill walked off into the bedroom when her husband came out, silk nighshirt clinging to her. The place was spotless, as far as Jones could tell.

“How can I help you?” Mr O' Neill asked.

“Were you both present at the Manhattan Museum of Art yesterday? You were on the guest list and,”

“Oh yes. We should have stayed away. I can't believe we chose to go there instead of seeing Swan Lake.”

“Can you tell us what happened at the party?”

“Well, at first nothing extraordinary, it was pleasant, but a tad... uneventful. Then the lights went out, then on again and then a woman shouted about her pearls or some other trinket, and then everyone was on the floor, grabbing things and – it became very unpleasant.”

“Did your wife and you donate anything to the museum?”

“No, our tastes are more progressive, to say the least, but Elizabeth wanted to mingle, and I just couldn't say no.”

“Did you notice anyone suspicious?”

“Except for the two harpies? I don't think I can recall anything – darling, does anything weird about last night come to your mind?”

His wife emerged from the bedroom, clad in a soft yellow robe. “Except for the two women you mean? The people who had donated things to the museum looked about ready to just take their things and leave through the front door. As a matter of fact, I think a few of them did, there was a woman going on about her dresses. But I don't know her name, so sorry.”

“Thank you, you have been very helpful.”

 

“And so, I noticed that my tie pin was missing after the lights went out and I like panicked and looked if it had fallen off, but I bet someone took it. I bet it was that Maxwell Lord, such an oily bastard.”

“And what happened then?”

“I looked for it, but it wasn't there, and as soon as the fighting started I left. I liked the tie pin, but not that much, really. And my initials are on there, so you can't even like sell it to someone. Except if their name also starts with an H. And then, I went home.”

“Is there someone who can confirm your whereabouts?”

“Well, there is...well, I left the party at like 10 when it all turned into this mess, I got my car from the parking service they should remember me. And here...no. Unless you count my little pet Rathaniel, isn't that right, my lovely?”

“Uh..thanks for your time, we'll be in touch.”

After she left her card, Diana left. “One down, 28 more to go. Maybe we should have started alphabetically this time.”

“Where to now?” Jones asked.

“Quellstein, George.”

“The football player? Right away.”

 

“And then I told her that I wanted to remove my collection of dresses from the museum, it was simply too dangerous. They're quite exquisite, you know, and far too delicate for such a rough environment. I did not want to lend them at all at first, but my friend Emilio, we met at a birthday party for the French ambassador, darling, said that he could not lend his wardrobe if my dresses weren't there to complete it. He's such a dashing man, how could I say no? But as soon as the lights went out, I had a bad feeling. I'm susceptible to such auras, you see, and I assure you that there was something there, something supernatural. I was so afraid. No one would listen to me, the curator brushed me off – she turned out to be a brute of a woman – and when I saw that Emilio had arranged for his wardrobe to be transported off immediately, I tagged along. In fact, he asked me if I minded terribly to hold on to his priceless wardrobe as he was expected home in Italy in the morning and couldn't make last minute arrangements for his items. Our pieces shared a truck, after Emilio had carried my dresses himself into it, such a kind man. Everything's at my storage center, if you care to take a look, it's the most dapper thing you'll ever see, from the Italian baroque era. It was hand-carved-”

“I'm sure it's lovely, Miss Chesterton.”

“It is very much so. Do you care for more tea? Harrison makes an excellent cup, doesn't he?”

“Thank you, I'm fine.”

“Oh Harrison, the young dear needs another cup of tea. And fetch me the address book, you'll be wanting the address of the storage center, won't you, my dear?”

 

After the crime scene hadn't revealed any clues as to how the robbery took place – and they still needed to confirm if the fight that ensued had been planned or had been accidental – they had all driven back to the bureau and were discussing theories over lunch.

“No, no, logical mind aside, how did you think it went down?” Neal challenged James, pointing his chopstick at him. After a brief fumble and struggle, James had exchanged his for the plastic fork.

“Just my intuition? Our guy is either a waiter or someone from staff, or rather someone pretending to be a waiter, in that party, who would notice one extra person, really, and when no one is looking, goes for the fuses. He turns off the light at the party – note that he didn't tamper with the rest, the museum has an alarm system that calls the police if suddenly all alarms fail – goes upstairs and messes with one person. Maybe he stole an earring or just took one and dropped it on the floor. Then, he lets human nature – New York human nature – run its course and waits for chaos. In the chaos he slips away to another room where the paintings were, grabs them and brings them outside to a car or something. Meanwhile, his accomplice goes to the camera room and deletes the evidence.”

“So, you're thinking it was two guys?” Jones asks.

“I really don't see one person causing the power out, then causing the struggle, robbing the museum, going back in to delete the evidence and then go out again unnoticed.”

“You have a point. But if it's the same guy as from the gallery, he has to have another accomplice, we've been keeping the guard under surveillance, he wasn't even near this museum.”

“That's tricky. It begins to seem like this guy has a whole net of accomplices, conveniently placed at museum throughout town.”

“Do you think he'll strike again?”

“I think that's a certainty – this guy gets away with two museum robberies in two days and we're not any closer to getting him as we were at this time yesterday.”

“Did the forensics report show anything?” Diana asked and fished for the file.

“DNA is useless with so many people being there, not to mention that we are looking for the needle in a haystack. And if we do find DNA of someone who wasn't at this party, this person could have been at the museum days ago and this wouldn't prove anything. The camera room's clean, no fingerprints that those of guards.”

“Did the interview reveal anything?”

“Not really, women fighting over an earring, a missing tie pin, a bit of gossip here about Veronica Cale looks like she has plastic surgery, that the captain of the Gotham Guardians has an affair, that the girl on his arm was a woman of the night...so, absolutely nothing.”

“Guys!” Neal said suddenly, “wouldn't all this be so much easier to pull off if all his accomplices were guards? Think about it – who can come and go unnoticed, who has access to everything and whose prints and DNA would we expect to find?”

“Very good, Neal, that's brilliant!” James said, he was going to say something else when his cellphone buzzed. He took a look at the display, then excused himself and went out of the room.

“Neal, get us more coffee, I want us all to take a closer the look at the guards from the gallery and the museum, and look for connections especially.” Peter said and shooed Neal out of the room.

 

Neal rolled his eyes but went anyway. In the little kitchen he found James talking to the phone.

“But I told you, it's brilliant. You're done already? That's awesome. I'm busy with a case here – no, not boring insurance fraud, it's a string of robberies – but as soon as I find the culprit, I'll fly out and then we can have a little holiday. No, I told you that I already took care of that. Come on, would I lie to you? Okay, there was this one time, but you can't blame me for that. Fine, two, but that's it.”

He smiled, and it was different. It wasn't a polite business-like smile, it seemed heartfelt.

“I don't know, a couple of more days, unless we have a breakthrough. No, I cannot tell you specifics, we've been over this.” Then he paused and listened. “Fine with me, but ask your mother first. Ah-ah-ah, not buts, that doesn't work on me. Yes. Okay, Love you.”

Then he hung up and looked at the cellphone with a far-away look. Only then did he seem to notice Neal there.

“Oh, sorry, am I in the way?” Business-smile was back on.

“No, just getting coffee for the hungry mob.”

“I'll lend you a hand.”

While they waited for the coffee to brew, Neal looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“Mind me asking who this was?”

“Oh, not at all, it's my son Billy. He called to tell me he finished his last school project, did all his reading and is 'totally done with math, thank all of the gods, and the baby jesus'.”

“Nice.”

“Yes, he's 13, I'll take some leave days and fly out to see him once we're done here.”

“So, he doesn't live in Chicago?”

“No, he and his mum live on the west coast, it's a long story.”

Neal thought back to his own childhood. “Bet you it can't compete with me when I was young.”

“You're on, as soon as this case is over. I'm at the best at bragging how awesome my kid is.” And while he spoke, Neal glimpsed that there was more to Agent Jesse. When he talked about his family, he seemed different somehow.

But before he could could ask more questions, the coffee had brewed and James was fetching cups from the cupboard above. And there his shift sleeve slipped back, and Neal could see red streaks running down his arm. Immediately his mind raced to this morning, where James showed up late, suit rumpled and without an alibi. Add to that the fact that in private James was a different man, and that the streaks looked like they could come from a struggle with women for jewelry just like there had been on many of the guests Diana had interviewed... no, he decided. The guys doesn't adjust his clock to the right time zone and immediately he's a criminal mastermind. Then again, it would be the perfect cover. He snapped out of it before James had turned around with with 5 mugs in his hands. Neal filled them up and sent James away with the first two, he'd refill the machine first.

Then Neal pulled out his own cell and called Mozzie. Now that he knew that there was more to Agent Jesse, it couldn't hurt to have a look.

 

He returned to Peter's office with the remaining mugs. James had adjusted his shirtsleeves before he went in, and Neal filed away that little nugget of information for later.

“Before we start with the guards, did the questioning of the guests turn up with anything?”

“I have an autograph from George Quellstein,” Jones announced proudly.

“The football player?”

“One and only.”

Diana shot him a glance and then answered “Almost all alibis check out, except for three.”

“That's a good quote considering how many people were there.”

“Thank god for all the chauffeurs and doormen. And supermarket cashiers. There was one person we couldn't get a hold off, an Emilio Saltarino, he's presumably in Italy. Another guest told us that he was heading there this morning, he talked with the airport security, and there's indeed paperwork showing that he went on an overnight flight to Florence, and the clerk there remembers him checking in. We haven't managed to get a hold of him yet, but with the time difference, it's no wonder.”

“We'll get on it this afternoon, anyone else?”

“There was Hartley Rathaway, who was present at the party – confirmed – but claimed that he left when the fight broke out. The parking attendant remembers bringing the car around, but after that no one saw him on the way to or at his apartment.”

“And the third one?”

“Veronica Cale. She accused someone of trying to steal her ring, was seen beating up Quellstein when he tried to intervene, but no one remembers seeing her after that. And she's the person who would make herself known.”

“No solid leads?”

“No, nothing solid. We can look at the three after we've cleared all the guards.”

The five poured over files of this and that, cvs, applications, account data. It had turned out that one guard lived in the same block as one from the other museum, and that three had the same dentist, but there was nothing else.

Neal's phone buzzed.

“That'll be June, she made a grand dinner tonight, I'm going to head out.”

Neal turned to James. “Don't you want to come, James? You'll love June.”

“Oh no, I couldn't possibly-”

Neal flashed him his most charming smile. “I insist.”

“Well, I suppose, then I can't refuse. Okay.”

They stood up and left, not before Jones mouthed a 'lucky bastard' at him and grinned.

“Is June your wife? Girlfriend?”

“No, she's my landlady and a terrific friend.”

On the street, James failed at catching a cab – common for the FBI, apparently – but Neal flagged one for them. He told the driver the address and they drove off. On the journey, James' phone rang and he answered it. “Hello champ. … Oh, sorry, not right now, I've been invited for dinner. Of course we can talk afterwards, I'll call you from the hotel when I get back. Time zone, remember? Now, be a good boy and don't make your mother angry, you know how she gets. Fine, I'll talk to her. No, when I get back, not now. Oh, we seem to be stopping, almost there. Yes, ttyl and ...that.”

“Your son?”

“He waited until now to tell me he has plans for the summer, and now my ex found out and it's all a bit of a mess.”

“Do you want to call her now?”

“Heavens no, I want to step back from this for an hour or two. Family, you know, gets pretty demanding.”

 

Inside, Neal introduced him not to June, but bustled him upstairs to his room, to show him something he had been working on. But instead of June or a dinner – which had been a lie anyway – Mozzie waited upstairs.

“Either you're remarkable at building an android, or you have an ulterior motive,” James observed.

“James, this is my friend Mozzie, Mozzie this is Agent James Jesse.”

Mozzie reached out to grab James' hand with both of his. “It's such an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Moz?” That wasn't how he usually acted around FBI personnel. Or people.

James seemed a bit creeped out. “Don't tell me, you're a believer.”

“I know that the Trickster is real. Did you get my mail?”

“I get tons of mail.”

“But I sent you a teddy bear.”

“Oh, that was you? Yes, I remember that. Uh...thanks.” It was clear that he just saying this to appease Mozzie.

“You're so welcome,” Mozzie said reverently.

“Why don't we sit down and you can let go of James here, and then we can have a talk?”

James looked like he already regretted coming, but he stayed, perched on the armrest of the couch.

“Mozzie, James told me that the Trickster thing is a strawman. Every crime that the police or crooks don't want to be associated with – whether they can't solve it or if it's too risky – they pin it on the Trickster. It's all just rumors.”

“Oh, that is what he told you? And you believed it? Neal, it's a trick! A wonderful, wonderful trick!”

“The FBI wouldn't let me work for them if they believed that I was a criminal mastermind.”

“Aha! And that is where you're wrong!”

“Well, our friend Neal here works for them – as an informant, with a tracking anklet and no real power, no offense Neal, - but I'm a fully fledged agent, I get to call shots.”

“Isn't it remarkable how you rose so high in the FBI in so little time?”

“What are you talking about?” Neal asked. He looked at James, but his face was blank.

“I checked a few records and our friend James here – if that is his real name – has only been working at the bureau for three years. And he started out at his current position, he was hired from the fly as an agent in command. Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

“Is that true?”

“You're not going to believe me whether I say yes or no,” James countered, and Mozzie nodded approvingly.

“There is paperwork apparently documenting that you worked there for much longer, but it's been dated back. The paperwork was filled out a few months ago, and now claims that you have been working your way up for years upon years. You came out of the blue.”

“And that makes me a criminal mastermind?”

“You suddenly show up, being associated, but never convicted of hundreds of crimes, and the FBI gives you a job? Just like that? I don't believe so.” Mozzie was in his element. “You tricked your way into the bureau, you made them give you that job. You pull the strings, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”

“And why would I do that? If I was a master thief, why voluntarily assume a position where I'm surrounded by law enforcement every day? Where I cannot go unwatched or unsupervised? Why take a job with too many hours a week for a barely adequate salary, if I could be free with millions at my disposal? Why?” It was as if a shadow lay on his face, dark and hiding what was underneath. Neal was reminded of the few seconds he had seen James in the red light of the alarm, and how creepy he had looked then.

“To trick them?” Mozzie tried, but sounded unsure, “I have copies of documents...”

“You have nothing. Nothing!” James sounded angry. He rose from his seat, no longer polite and humble. “Do you think I want to be there? Caged in an office with people watching my every move, like vultures? Waiting for one mistake, one wrong move or word?”

He stood up straight, and suddenly he seemed taller. And he was angry, furious even. Something flashed in his eyes as he stared at Neal and Mozzie.

“You know nothing about me!”

But he calmed down, his face slipped back into the composed smile. He started to pace around. Suddenly, he seemed more animated, he talked with his hands and whole body. As if a switch had been flicked, and now it was set to “on”.

“I'll doubt you'd have bugs in your own home, but one can never be too careful,” he started and looked around the apartment.

“The place is clean, I sweeped it myself when I got here,” Mozzie said petulantly.

James turned to face them, but there was something strange about him. As if his dark suit was not enough to contain him, as if there was more lurking beneath the surface, as if Agent Jesse was only a fraction of what James really was.

“Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a young man who had run away from home and come to the big city. He had a natural talent for blending into places, for going unnoticed and for hiding in plain sight. Back home, he had no one, but a broken family. But in the city, he found friends. People who were like him, who wanted to be free and do what they wanted. So, they started playing games, going wherever they wanted and taking whatever they wanted. But it couldn't hold for long. Soon, the young man parted from the group and went on his own, doing whatever he wanted. But he came into a rut, where nothing seemed to matter anymore. Where he felt like quitting altogether, if he could just get this one score, this last big score, and then he could live in peace.”

Neal nodded understandingly. The one big score – that was a dream every criminal had, just this one last job, the biggest ever and the final one.

“Only it was never so easy. And one day he received a wake-up call in the form of a quintuple obituary – his friends had died. He had nothing left to lose. And that was when he heard about a rumor, that someone – a big someone was throwing a party, far away in Sicily. An old and powerful family had sent out invitations to the world of crime, inviting whomever they deemed fit, because the opportunity of their lifetime was waiting for them.”

“You don't mean the – no.”

“Yes,” James retorted and bared his teeth, “Nero.” He didn't spit the name out, but it was close. His whole disgust and loathing was contained in that name.

“Who is Nero?” Neal asked.

“You were in prison for that, Neal, you wouldn't know him, but Nero is bad news. The head of the oldest Mafia family of whole Italy. They say that he practically runs Europe when he feels like it.”

“Yes, he's a monster in human form. He's tall, pale, ghostly blond with a preference for green suits. But his eyes – they make you shiver. He looks powerful, as if one snap of his fingers could end you. And the scariest part is that that's true. One wrong move, and his subordinates descend upon you like a pack of lions on a lamb.”

“And you were invited by this man?” Neal probed deeper.

“No, I wasn't Well, the young man wasn't. But he was interested nevertheless, so he did what he did best: he stole an invitation.”

Mozzie gasped. “That's genius!”

“And when the young man arrived at the party, everyone who was anyone in the world of crime was there, from drug dealers to arm dealers, robbers and murderers alike. They were bad people.”

“Did you know about this, Moz?”

“I heard rumors about it, but I didn't know anyone who went there. And I prudently stayed away.”

“And then?”

“Nero offered them a deal. He promised unfathomable power, all you could ever want...but the price was too high. You'd basically have to sell your soul to him. Some people left immediately, some rushed at him to vow their loyalty.”

“And the man?”

“He stayed, intrigued enough not to go, but not enough to say yes. He stood and watched as connections were forming, plans were made, alliances were forged. And then, it became too much. It became too horrible, and he realized that no score was worth this much. And so, he tricked Nero, and then called the cops on him, from local authorities to Interpol and anyone who wanted a piece of Nero. And those were a lot of people. With his operation ruined and him nearly defeated, he vowed revenge to the person who tricked him.”

They were silent for a few moments.

“Is this true?”

“As much as anything I ever say is true,” James replied and grinned. And it looked changed, it was broad and proud.

“It really is you,” Neal said breathlessly, “you are the Trickster.”

“It took you surprisingly long to catch on, didn't it?”

“So, the French embassy?”

“Yes.”

“The museum robbery with a rubber chicken and confetti?”

“No confetti, but yes.”

“The Vermeer?”

“Yes, yes and no. The one that supposedly was stolen in the Netherlands is part of insurance fraud, it was never stolen.”

“You're my hero,” Mozzie admitted, eyes shining with wetness, “but why are you doing this? Why work for the FBI?”

“Simply, for survival,” James' smile fell away, “I have to. Nero is alive and he is pissed, he'd like to see me dead. So, I tried to think of a way that would keep me alive.”

“You turned yourself in, in exchange for protection?”

“God no, I could have gone into witsec and would have been dead not two days after. The best hiding place is in plain sight, so I became a public figure. But I needed a white vest. Criminal kills criminal? Serves them right. Criminal kills civilian? Tragic but happens. But...criminal kills cop? All hell breaks loose for him. Criminal kills FBI agent? He might as well have signed his own death warrant.”

“So, you just...became an FBI agent?”

“I gave up some answers in exchange for the position. Plus, I know a few secrets that the bureau would like to keep quiet, so they had double incentive to keep me. And as long as I do my work, I'm safe.”

“How does that work?”

“It's a balancing act. As long as I'm valuable to the FBI, Nero can't have me killed without the entire bureau going after him. And he doesn't want that, even more so than he wants my head on a spike. But, I cannot be too much of an asset, if I become dangerous for Nero in this regard, his reward for killing me will outweigh the risk.”

“That's incredibly dangerous,” Mozzie admitted.

“Yes, but I'm good at balancing. Metaphorically speaking, the heights thing.”

Neal sat back, drained. “That is the best story I ever heard.”

“I know, it's fantastic.”

“And are you behind the robberies here?”

“No. I was in Chicago when the first one happened, which can be confirmed by my agents and the phone data, not to mention airport personnel and paperwork.

“So, you're really not responsible for this one?”

“Sadly no, but they're pretty impressive. I'd like to have a chat with who's responsible, but it's a thief working with an insider who hopefully won't have been stupid enough to contact the insiders through anything that can he traced. I'd be disappointed if he got caught because he happens to be on one guy's bowling team or went with one to high school.”

“Can I have your autograph?” Mozzie asked.

“I don't do autographs.”

“A photo?”

“No.”

“Anything? I can't believe I met the Trickster and there's nothing I can show for it.”

“There's one thing.”

“What is it?”

“You can tell people that the Trickster stole your wallet.”

“But you didn't...hang on a second – you did!”

James laughed and produced a thin black wallet from his pocket which he tossed back at Mozzie.

“Wow....it's you, in the flesh. All those fantastic things...”

“Hold on, the thing that I told you about the Trickster being a strawman? That's true, I get blamed for a lot of stuff I didn't do.”

“And you can't confirm that you weren't responsible.”

“I can, but the higher ups don't believe me. So, I go after the people who dare to besmear my name, and arrest them.”

“Isn't that risky? Doesn't that tell the FBI that you're responsible for all the crimes you don't investigate?”

“They can't prove a thing, they would have stopped me long ago if they could. But if they keep me around, I catch a lot of criminals and I can make up for my supposed misdoings. That's why they have me work together with Burke – he's a by the book guy and would doubtlessly arrest me if I was responsible.”

“They made him your watchdog?”

“They call my agents back home my nannies. Hurts them more than me, honestly.”

“You have agents not to watch your back, but to arrest you?”

“They do more than that, they are highly capable agents. Just, not clever enough to challenge me”

He grinned at them, two parts mischievous and one part threatening. Then his cellphone rang and he looked at the display. “Sorry, I promised to call back, but seems like someone can't wait to talk to me. I'll cut this short, I'll see you tomorrow at the office, Neal. Nice meeting you, Mozzie.”

James left and from the window, Neal could see that he hailed a cab, suddenly having no problem at all getting one. As he got inside, he looked up, directly at Neal, phone already at his ear. He nodded and went inside. The taxi drove off and Neal slumped into a chair.

 

“That was magnificent,” he confessed.

“Stellar. If the guy is as good as he claims to be, he's...stellar. I'm lost for words here.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Part of me wants to,” Mozzie admitted as he poured himself a glass of wine, “but I can't shake the feeling that he's not telling us everything or is not quite telling the truth.”

“You think he's playing us?”

“I think he's playing everybody, the questions remains to what extent. I do believe that he really is the Trickster.”

“Me too,” Neal grabbed a glass and let Mozzie fill it up, “and I guess he's not responsible for these crimes.”

“Unless he wanted insight into the bureau and see how far they had gotten so he could lead them away from him, if he is behind everything.”

“Or he could be telling the truth and is going after someone who is using his M.O.”

“Or he...do you think he planned this as well? This game of 'He did it. But if he knew that we thought that he did it, he'd tell us something to throw us off his scent. Unless he knew that we knew that he knew that...' it's a snake biting its own tail.”

“Mozzie, don't you think you're going too far? That hurts my head, thinking in bluffs and double-bluffs”

“You never faced someone like that before, Neal. Keller is a joke compared to him, that guy is a Seth Grahame-Smith to his Jane Austen.”

“I think you're going too far with this metaphor.”

“Simile.”

“Whatever, Moz.” Neal took another sip. “So, what has your investigation of the thefts brought up?”

They talked for hours, but Mozzie had no further information that the FBI hadn't found, except another link between a guard from the museum and a guard from the gallery: they were in the same World of Warcraft guild.


	6. Chapter 6

This time it was different. There was no subtlety and grace, no stealth and silence.

At first glance, at least.

The security personnel at the Diamond Delights, an upscale jewelry store, was at high alert. A thieving spree had been on the news, where one or more thieves had made away with millions worth of jewelry and paintings. The previous targets had been museums, but the owner Costa Cordalis had warned them to be extra careful. Also, that he would fire all of them if anything happened to the goods; one of the highest-paying customers who paid extra for discretion, had reserved certain items and it would not do if only one tiny piece was stolen. Normally there's be 3 guards present, but Cordalis had made the day shift come in again, promising them a hefty bonus if they did. So there were 6 guards, always walking in pairs. Also, they had implemented mandatory check-ins not every 30 minutes, but 5.

Steve Turner was bored out of his mind, walking with Dean Simmons. The store did have a top floor in addition to the real store with the displays, but it was a workshop where Mr Cordalis repaired jewelry, so nothing too valuable was up there at any time. But they were still required to check that as well. By this time of night, he had already counted the stairs up to the room, knew the pattern of the creaking floorboards in the workshop and noticed the same rusty smear near the door for about 30 times.

“This is Team B, still nothing here, “ he announced over walkie-talkie after checking his watch and seeing that another call-in was in order.

“Where are you now?” Jane asked. He liked Jane, she had just the right amount of brains and sass. Maybe he should just ask her out sometime, it couldn't be worse than her saying no....probably.

“Just making a turn at the entrance. Don't you think old Costa is getting paranoid?” he asked.

“A bit, we're not a museum, the risk is now not higher than normal. But he promised me a trio of Ben Franklins for working this shift, I'm not complaining.” She sounded as bored as he was.

“Hey, Team C, you there?” Steve tried.

“Steve, that's us.”

“Sorry, I mean Team A then. You there, Fariq? Tony”

There was plastic crinkling then a muffled “Yes, sorry.”

“Let me guess, you just passed the snack machine in the backroom.”

“Positive.”

“All clear at your end?”

“Affirmative.”

“You're not in the army anymore, you can say 'yes'.”

“Yes then.”

“All clear then, I'll – oh shit, not that punk again!”

 

'That punk' was a figure in a blue hoodie and yellow checkered baggie pants, wielding an oversized milkshake in the one hand, and a graffiti can in the other. He had been seen vandalizing the buildings in the street for the past two weeks, but had always managed to get away before anyone could catch him.

He spotted the two guards at the entrance, and waved, before running over to the store front. And raising the spray can.

“Oh no, you little-” one of the guards said and made to unlock the door. By the time he had gotten it open, there was already half of the drawing of a yellow elephant on the window. The guard ran out, but the punk was already fleeing the scene, dropping his milkshake on the sidewalk. The guard splashed through the puddle, only to slip. He could only let out a confused sound before he hit the ground. The punk let out an ugly cackle as he ran off.

“What the-”

His partner came out to see if he was okay, while yelling commands into his walkie-talkie.

“It was that graffiti-spraying kid. Steve took a fall while in pursuit, but he seems okay. Tony, come to the front, real quick.”

It was just a few seconds before the other guard arrived, but the entrance was open and unsecured. And that's all it took for the thief to sneak in. And it took 5 minutes more until the next theft had been noticed.

“We're so getting fired,” Steve said. The others agreed.

 

Peter had been pulling an all-nighter, so he had been in the office when the call came in. It was about 1am when he arrived at the store, Jones in tow. The first officer on scene filled him in on the story. Peter was trying to identify the graffiti tag on the shop window, - was that an elephant? Or possibly a ferret?.

“I'm going to call the policemen for this district, to see what they have on the graffiti artist here, maybe he can lead us to the thief.” he said to Jones.

“That's unnecessary, Burke, he's got nothing to do with it.” a familiar voice said. Jesse came out of the store, a pair of gloves on his hands.

“Nothing to do? So, he conveniently sprayed the store just before it was robbed, covering up the outside camera, and out on a whim, he decided to lace his milkshake with marbles?” Peter looked at him disbelievingly. “He's part of the crime!”

“I agree, but I don't think that this night's graffiti sprayer and the regular one are the same person.”

“He's right, Peter, the tags look similar, but this one's different. And I swear this is a different brand of spray, the color's off. What, you pick stuff up from Caffrey. Oh, that's clever – someone pretended to be the sprayer and lured away a guard, who thought that it was just a normal teenager who had been seen in the area recently.”

“And meanwhile the thief sneaked inside in the little time frame between the guard running out to look after this partner, and before the next guard arrived to look at the entrance.” Peter completed the trail of thought.

“Have CSI take a look at the cup here, I have a feeling we will discover something very interesting on it.” James said and pointed to the cup in the puddle of pink sludge and little marbles.

“You don't think he left his finger prints on there, do you?” Jones asked.

“I count on there being no finger prints at all.”

“Because a juvenile delinquent wouldn't wear gloves in summer to hold his milkshake, but a criminal may have been smart enough not to leave evidence....thereby leaving evidence. Good work, Jesse.” Peter said.

They split up: Peter shared the theory on the graffiti with CSI, while Jesse and Jones went to interview the guards.

 

“We are fired,” a woman announced, “we are so fired.”

“And you are?”

“Jane Fairbanks, I work here as a guard.”

“6 guards for this place? Isn't that overkill?”

“Apparently not,” a tall man said, munching on a snack bar in his hand, “we were robbed.”

“Normally it's only 3 people, but the owner grew paranoid with the recent thefts, so he he made the day shift come in again. I can't believe it, we were 6 people here. 6! And we didn't see anyone, that's impossible.”

“I can assure you,” Jones said, “the culprit's very resourceful. He managed to rob a museum while over 100 other people were present. I wonder why he suddenly targeted a store instead of a museum, though.”

“Maybe he's not exclusive, Jesse offered, “this is the third crime, too early for a definite pattern anyway.” He asked Jones to take over the interviews, he wanted to take a look at the camera footage and asked Jane to accompany him.

“And to believe we were duped by that graffiti punk.”

The other guards mumbled in agreement.

“What's that even supposed to be? A green elephant or what?”

 

After the interviews were done, Jesse had excused himself, wanting to go back to his hotel room. Peter couldn't blame him. He longed to go home to his wife, but something was keeping him on edge, and he'd only have a handful of hours until he was needed anyway. No use in driving home and losing precious time. But he had a theory now and asked Jones to tell Diana to check a few things for him in the morning.

 

Neal arrived at the bureau in the morning. Peter was slumped over his desk and snapped to attention when Neal entered.

“Long night?”

“Another break-in, this time a downtown jewelry store.”

“You didn't call me?”

“It was after midnight, and Jones and Jesse were with me at the scene. We can get work done without you, you know?”

“Oh please,” Neal grinned.

He read the report on Peter's desk. “Any closer to catching the thief?”

“No. I really hope it's not Jesse, though.”

“What? He's a suspect?! You...you looked into him?”

“Of course I looked into him, Neal, he is suspected to be Trickster. Involved in hundreds of crimes, not being committed for one of them. His track record is better than yours though, Neal.”

“You suspected him all along?”

“He isn't responsible for the first theft, but I believe he is capable of pretending there's a crime spree, by being his own copycat's copycat.”

“That would be devious.”

“It would fit. His boss warned me about him – the higher-ups keep him around because he is smart and solves crimes, he puts away lots of criminals. But no one trusts him. They sent him to us so that I could have an eye on him, and something just feels off about him. I can't prove anything – yet – but he is hiding something. And I will find out what that is.”

“Do you have anything that would support your theory?”

“Nothing concrete, but I checked his phone logs: a few times when he says it's his son on the line, the call is actually coming from New York. And since his son is in L.A., it must be someone else. Plus, I had Diana check the Marriot and their tapes, and wouldn't you know? He wasn't there on the night the museum got robbed. The camera show him rush in shortly after 8am, and come out 5 minutes later in new clothes. And tonight? He and a mystery man stumbled in at around 3am. And we know there's an accomplice. This doesn't look good, Neal.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Honestly, I didn't want the guy to have a bad influence on you. He's like you, only never been caught. I didn't want you to be impressed and go back to your old ways once you saw how it could work out.”

Neal fell silent. Of course he had been impressed with the Trickster, how could he not?

But the Trickster was also Agent Jesse, a man caged in a bureau full of people that didn't trust him and watched his every move, just waiting for him to trip and fall? Someone who confessed that his life was in danger is he wasn't useful? No, the Trickster was too grand, too big to function, he had to fail sooner or later.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I had a talk with him when I invited him for dinner. Mozzie checked him out and ...I won't lie, he's magnificent, but he's not what I want to be, Peter.”

“Good, good.” Peter looked at him and Neal saw an unfamiliar expression until he realized what it was: it was pride.

“Let's drive to the Marriott and see what he has to say when we confront him.”

 

The Marriott was nice, a four star hotel and definitely in good taste. It was around 12 when they arrived. They went up to room 308 and knocked. Neal pondered what they might find – James and his accomplice, the mysterious thief? Blueprints of the museums? The stolen goods? Or that the whole room was deserted? Peter banged on the door.

“Jesse, this is Burke, open up, we want to talk to you.” He banged again and slowly reached for the gun in his holster, when the door opened. But it wasn't James who opened.

“Can I help you?” the man asked. He was about Neal's height, had red hair, freckles and blue eyes behind glasses. And he was wearing one of the hotel's bath robes? Had they come to the wrong room?

Peter barged in, hand on his gun. “Where is Agent Jesse?”

“Sorry, hon, was that the door? I couldn't hear under the shower.” And in stepped James. Wet, with only a towel wrapped around his hip. Once he saw Neal and Peter, he made a surprised sound that was a tiny bit like a gawk and turned beet red. Then he seemed to realize he was half-naked and grabbed a second bathrobe that had been laid out on the bed and covered himself.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and tried to smile confidently, but Neal could see that he was nervous and was only badly hiding it. Had they done it? Had they caught him and the mystery thief?

The other man looked from them to James and back, and then started giggling.

“This isn't funny, Hartley.”

“I disagree, this is genius!”

“Wait,” Peter stood up straight and mentioned for Neal to close the door, “Hartley? You're not by any chance Hartley Rathaway, are you? The heir to the publishing empire?”

“Guilty. Oops, bad choice of words,” Hartley answered and giggled some more.

“May I ask what you are doing in Agent Jesse's hotel room?”

Oh. Oh!

“Peter, I think you're on the wrong track here.”

Peter turned around to say something to Neal, when the penny dropped.

“Oh, so you're-”

“together, yes,” Hartley confirmed.

“I didn't think you were gay,” Neal admitted, after all James had talked about a son and an ex-wife.

“I'm not, well, not entirely,” James spoke up for the first time in the conversation, and he seemed uncomfortable and wouldn't meet their eyes. For the first time since Neal met him, he seemed vulnerable, he seemed utterly human.

“Wait, weren't you at the party at the museum two nights ago?” Peter asked, back in FBI-mode.

“Yes, I was. I left when that mess began, and I ….okay, I don't have an alibi.”

“You do,” James stated, matter-of-factly, and stood next to Hartley, gently reaching out with his hand and held Hartley's in his, “he was with me.”

“You didn't mention this.”

“How could I? James' work environment is bad enough, I didn't want to cause him any trouble. It's hard, incredibly hard and often painful to come out of the closet, and I won't force my boyfriend out, least of all times during a criminal investigation.”

That made sense. It would also explain why James hadn't spent the first night at the hotel and only returned for a change of clothes, and why he had been seen with someone on the night after.

“So you really do think I'm behind all this, the Trickster is back, right?” James asked with a weak smile that looked pitiful.

“There were those little inconsistencies that didn't add up, like phone calls or the hotel camera not picking you up.”

“Three guesses who's responsible and the first two don't count,” Hartley said with a wiry grin.

“On the second day, when I went to make coffee, I saw scratch marks on your arm, exactly like those people from the party had. I suspected that well-”

“That I infiltrated the party in disguise, caused the commotion and ran off with a few paintings under my arm through the front door? Those scratches mean nothing.”

“He has a matching set on his back,” Hartley retorted and grinned.

“Hartley!” James admonished.

“It's true! They shouldn't treat you as a suspect for every crime that is committed when you happen to be in the same state.”

“Doesn't that remind you of someone, Peter?”

“Shut up, Neal.”

Hartley leaned over and whispered something that made James smile, really smile.

“I probably should get dressed,” he said. “This isn't the first time I've been interviewed by law enforcement without pants on, but I'm getting too old for this.” He vanished into presumably the bathroom.

“And? Aren't you afraid he'll climb out of the window?” Hartley asked and sat down on the bed.

It was meant as a joke, but Peter excused himself, he needed to make a phone call. Probably to tell the team to hold off and not go storm the place.

“You know, now that I think about it, this explains everything. But it seemed so ...inevitable, almost poetic that this was really the Trickster's doing, some elaborate plan.”

“'If I had a dollar for every time someone said that,” Hartley said. Funny, James had used the same words, this topic had come up a lot, probably.

“So, where did you two meet?” Neal asked.

“In Chicago, the opera house. I play at the New York Symphonics, and we were there on a tour, when the lead violinist discovered that someone had stolen her instrument a few hours before the concert.”

“And this warranted FBI involvement?” Peter who had come back in, asked.

“Considering it was a Stradivari and the violinist is the daughter of Senator Dupont, yes, the FBI was on scene very quickly. I was interviewed by James here, when he made a musical pun and I just doubled over with laughter. That's my secret weakness, terrible puns. And, we kinda hit it off straight away. I was in town for a week for the concerts and he was in the audience every night. I just knew that I couldn't let this man go. And so, I didn't. He's such a sweet guy, once you get to know him.”

“Sweet wouldn't be the first thing that springs to mind if I was asked to describe him.”

Hartley's eyes blazed with anger. “Is that any wonder? His colleagues give him enough crap already, he has to play the unapproachable agent at the office. Those people have never seen the real him.”

“And you have? Are you sure?”

“Oh look, it's every conversation I've had with my parents since I've introduced him,” Hartley rolled his eyes and continued to speak in a very convincing falsetto voice “'can you trust him? Do you know he's a master thief? He's just after your inheritance, he's using you'” his normal voice returned, “They have been saying that to me since I first mentioned him, and suddenly they're all protective about me, pure innocent me being exploited by the big bad wolf in sheep's clothing.”

“Isn't your family loaded? It seems like a pretty valid concern to me,” Neal offered.”

“Oh please, all my parents ever cared for is money and not losing their face. Do you know what happened when I came out to my parents?” He became agitated. “They threw me out, disowned me and screamed for me never to come back. That's why I have lied about us, it took my parents – my family, the people who are supposed to love me the most – 10 years to come to terms with having a gay son. This could ruin his career, work relationships, about everything. He already has a big enough target on his back, I don't need to paint a second one.”

“We understand,” Peter said, “but I have to ask: is there any way to verify your alibi from two nights ago?”

“I get it, the bureau doesn't trust a single thing he ever says. Let me think. Oh, ask the neighbor across the hall, he hates me.”

“Are you sure he's going to verify your alibi then?”

“As soon as you knock on his door, he's gonna rant about the noise, my music – I'm a musician, I need to practice - , my pets, my cooking, and he's probably going to blame the weather on me, too.”

“And tonight?”

“We were in a bar on Infantino Avenue, I bet someone there remembers us.”

“I'll get my agents on that,” Peter said.

James came out of the bathroom, dressed in a blue suit. “Have you come to defend my honor?” He grinned, and he looked like back at Neal's apartment.

“Nah, I dragged you down into the swamp with me.” He grinned back.

“I'll call Jones again, just a second,” Peter said and turned to the wall.

Hartley straightened James' tie, and just for a second, James' face softened. Neal thought this might be the real James, but the look was gone just as quickly as it had come.

“I just have one question, so feel free not to answer, but I thought you were....invincible, really, untouchable. I never thought that anything could rattle you,” Neal admitted, admiration creeping into his voice, almost against his will.

“The only thing that could work against me, is me. It sounds weird, but...you know, I thought I knew who I was, I've been me for over 30 years now. But one day, I meet another person, this incredible – don't give me that look, honey – man, and suddenly there's this part of me that I never knew existed. And, it was terrifying. So, I freaked for a bit – don't laugh, honey – but I got it together.”

Neal felt like he was intruding. He pointed to the door.

“I'm just going to show myself out, shall I?”

James gave him a dismissive little wave, and Neal and Peter left the room.

 

“That was kind of awkward.”

“Let's hope it wasn't an act. I told Jones to talk to the neighbor to confirm his story, and sent Diana to the bar. I'd hate to have to go after him, he's smart and resourceful.”

“You'd catch him.”

“I caught you, didn't I?”

“And you never get tired of reminding me.”

“Twice, in fact,” Peter grinned.

 

“Of course he was there, that pesky twerp. Let me think – first there was this godawful music, probably until 10pm or so. I almost went over there to shut him up, but then the racket began. He wasn't alone, you see? I'm not a homophobe, don't get me wrong, but I hate this guy. It's personal. When he moved in with - I counted – 7 flute cases, it was over. And I think his apartments has rats. Rats! I should have called the exterminator on him...wait, do you deal with this sort of stuff? Can I file a complaint with you?”

“Uh...no, sir. I'm from the FBI's white collar division, we don't deal with that kinda of problems.”

“Ooh, what a fancy name. It's like with the goddam coffees at the goddam starbucks, no one says 'coffee, black' anymore, it's 'frapalacino with cinnamon and swirls and that crap', it's a disaster, as I was talking to my brother Sam yesterday-”

“Thank you, sir, that will be all.”

 

Diana stepped into the bar, “Carmine's” and almost walked out promptly again. Despite the early hour, there were already a couple of people at the counter drinking. She caught the bartender's eye. He looked half as young as the patrons. Diana walked up and while the bartender flashed her a winning smile and started with “My name's Anthony, what brings such a lovely lady into this establishment?” she flashed her badge. His smile turned down several notches.

“I guess I don't need to ask if I can bring you anything.”

“I need some answers, that would be nice. Did you work here last night?”

“No, I only cover the days. But if you want to know something, you should ask Calhoun and Leo over there, they practically live here.” He pointed to two men, one sitting with a beer, the other with something purple in his glass who were staring at the TV. A hockey game was on and one of the men was muttering “Foul! Is the referee blind?”.

“Gentlemen,” Diana said to catch their attention, “isn't it a bit early to be drinking?”

At her sight, the one with the beer perked up, sat up straight and put on what he probably thought was a seductive smile. “Hello there.”

The other man rolled his eyes and rested his face in his palm.

“Would you believe me I'm a stock broker for the Asian market and therefore I just got off work?”

“No. And I have to inform you that lying to an FBI agent is illegal.”

“She's way out of your league,” the other man informed his friend, “what can we do for you, agent? Ma'm? Miss?”

“Agent is fine. Were you here this night?”

“Yes, the game between the Metropolis Meteors and the Gotham Razorbacks. I didn't think they'd win, but-”

“Was by any chance this man here as well?” She showed them a picture of James .

Both men laughed. “Yes, blondie! He was here alright.”

“What's so funny?”

“Lady...Agent, he stuck out like a sore thumb, I was so close to put a 'kick me' sign on his back, but I don't think it would have made a difference. This other guy dragged him here...red hair, glasses. That guy was right at home, and tried to get the other one to play cue. That was a disaster, my sides hurt from laughing. I think they had enough at....what time was that, Calhoun?”

“I'm not sure, but it was after 2 or so. Maybe later. I guess it was bedtime for blondie.”

 

While Diana and Jones were able to verify these alibis, Peter tried with little luck to speak to the last guest they hadn't been able to contact, Mr Saltarino from the party.

“No, oh god, she just put me through to someone else again. Yes, buon giorno, I'm trying to speak to Mr Saltarino. S-A-L...hello?”

“Let me try,” Neal offered and held out his hand for the receiver.

“Buona sera, posso parlare con signor Saltarino? Ma certo, aspetto,” Peter threw Neal a dirty look, “Ciao, signor Saltarino? Bene, siamo la polizia del New York. Vorrei sapere se era in il museo dell´arte stasera notte? Benissimo, va bene.” He listened to someone talking on the line for quite some time. “Grazie mille.”

“And?”

“It's true. He left for Italy last morning, arrived in Florence, had a business meeting, crashed due to the jetlag and I'm afraid you have woken him up just now. Everything checks out. And he gave us permission to look at his piece he took from the museum, provided that his friend Lady Chesterton agrees to it, since he put his wardrobe with her dresses there at short notice.”

“The wardrobe would just be the exact size for the loot, and it would be perfect.”

“Do you think he did it? Or just seized an opportunity when it presented itself to him, and left the blame to fall on the Lady if he got caught? It's her storage locker.”

“Which is exactly that the Lady might have done herself, and let the blame fall on a foreign business man conveniently out of town within the next two hours.”

“I'll get someone on this, “Peter said and dispatched an agent to have a look around.

“Why couldn't we go?” Neal asked. He had been here for hours, looking at inconclusive data.

“Because we need to crack this case before another theft takes place. I want us to examine the pattern more closely – first a gallery, then a museum which was holding a party non-the-less, and a diamond store. What do they have in common? Where could the thief strike again?”

“Valuable objects, check. Guards, check. In two cases jewelry. But in one art. And in a place where the thief could have gone for jewelry, but choose paintings instead.”

“And a statue.”

“If it weren't for the the erasing of the tapes, I'd almost think it were different people. Crime scene 1: thief sneaks in at night, triggers the alarm but gets away. scene 2: thief causes a commotion on purpose, and gets away. Crime scene 3: thief causes commotion, then robbery, then gets away.”

“Do you think those are unrelated?”

“No, they are related, but I'm beginning to think that theft #2 could be a copy cat. Wrong type of loot, and the thief was probably out in the open, attending the party himself.”

“Makes the theory about the businessman or the lady more plausible, does it?”

“We will have to wait and see, I want to take a closer look at the staff roster, we must be missing something.”

 

Peter decided he had had enough of this and was in lack of shower, a proper meal and first and foremost, the company of his wife El. He was sure that any other women would have gotten mad over his many long nights, over how some cases didn't let him go and he worked on them constantly even when he was at home, with his wife and his dog, but El never would be. And he wouldn't have married any other woman anyway.

As he entered his home, Satchmo ran up to the door and said “hello” very enthusiastically....for a dog. A delicious scent came from the kitchen. Peter suspected he'd find El in there, and wasn't disappointed. “You're a sight for sore eyes.”

“Overworked and tired eyes as well?”

“You know me too well.”

As they sat down for dinner, both pretending not to secretly feed Satchmo, she asked about his work.

“It's one of those cases, isn't it?”

Peter smiled.

“With that kind of insight, maybe you should come working for the FBI. I'll take over your catering firm, or become a stay-at-home husband.”

She grinned.

He told her about the case, his doubts, suspicions and concerns for Neal. Her face grew soft; she liked Neal, and didn't like the thought of him being exposed to danger.

“It feels like I'm dangling Neal over a zoo cage with a colorful beast inside. I don't trust this Agent Jesse, no matter if he really is or was a criminal, there's something off about him.”

 

“Deal me in, boys,” June announced her presence and joined Neal and Mozzie at the table. Plans of the crime scenes, witness reports and forensic documents were spread out. Mozzie had brought a chart where he had listed all known connections between people involved, but it was a jumbled mess.

“Mozzie, I really think you can cross out the Warcraft thing,” Neal said exasperated.

“But Neal-”

“Moz.”

“Fine, but I will say 'I told you so' if those two guys are behind this. Don't trust bloodelfs.”

June turned a few pages.

“Whoever this is, I like his style. And who is this handsome gentleman?” She fished a photo of James from a pile.

“Either the man who is responsible for all of this, the man who wants to catch the one who's responsible for this, or ...at this point I don't know anymore. I want to believe he's here to help, but I can't help but feel that there's more to him.”

“So, did he pull of these crimes?”

“If he did, he can't have done it alone,” Mozzie intervened, “so I made this chart of connections leading to him.” But the chart had James in the middle, the people from the three crime scenes in three corners and the FBI in the fourth. Only two lines connected him, but Mozzie had decorated the leftover blank space with a lot of question marks and suggestions.

“No closer than before?”

“No, not one step.”


	7. Chapter 7

Peter had stepped into the bureau refreshed and calm. He had a good feeling about this morning. He'd sent an agent to take a look at Lady Chesterton's storage, so they'd soon know if she or Mr Saltarino had anything to do with the crime at the museum. Neal was already in his office, reading in some report.

 

“Boss, you have to see this!” Diana rushed into Peter's office, a file in her hand, “before you called us to verify his alibi, I had asked HQ to check out Rathaway. He has a sealed record.”

“Let me guess: sins of youth?”

“Yes. But, this is the point: I got a call from an Agent Morillo who had been transferred from Keystone where Rathaway lived in his teenage years: he is - allegedly, of course - the Trickster's old partner, only he wasn't so lucky. He did get caught for a different crime, some Robin Hood robbery– he was let off with a slap on his wrist because of his family, they're old money and have feelers in about every department – but almost all of his crimes were connected to the Trickster; and I bet you that they're working together now.”

“That son of a-” Peter thundered, “I want to see Agent Jesse now!”

 

“Oh, I know that tone,” a voice said; it was smooth and had an edge to it, like a knife barely concealed, teasing, “you're pissed because you think that I tricked you.” It was James, leaning in the doorway. Neal's alarms rang: his whole demeanor was different. His pose was relaxed, casual, as if he didn't have a care in the world. But his face – his face was an almost offending grimace of smugness, of 'I'm smarter than you' and 'come on, challenge me'. Gone was the facade of the polite but efficient agent. Neal knew a shark when he saw one, and James was a great white in a pool of ornamental fish.

“You lied to us! Rathaway is not your boyfriend but your old partner! He's the accomplice!”

James put on an expression of mock-hurt. “How dare you? I'm in love with that man.”

Everything they had said in the hotel room had been a lie! Neal couldn't believe that he had fallen for that.

“So, nothing of all that is true?”

“Don't sound so....betrayed, Neal. I told you the truth. You never asked me about possible teenage misdoings.”

And he was right – he hadn't lied, not explicitly, but Neal knew the difference well enough, used it himself often.

“I'll get you for this!” Peter said with fury in his voice.

“For what?” James stood upright, hands in his pockets. He seemed taller than this morning. Colder, as well. “I'm always blamed for crimes like that, but you know that, Burke.”

In his eyes glinted a fire, 'come and get me, if you can' it said.

“I will put you under arrest!”

“I'd like to see you try.”

Then Hughes arrived at the office, cellphone still clutched in his hand. “Jesse, you're being suspended.”

James turned to face him, he seemed to almost loom over Hughes, although he wasn't actually taller than him.

“Et tu, Hughes? Am I suddenly responsible for some other crime...again?”

“No,” Hughes answered and, although he never looked anything but professional, he replied smugly “but the jewelry store also did repairs and it was working on some that belonged to Mrs Rathaway. And since you have such close ties to the family, I can't let you investigate any further, I fear your judgment may be compromised.”

“Huh, that's....so very considerate of you.” It was only for a moment, but he had been rattled. But James composed himself quickly. “I guess I'll have to remove myself from the active investigation, lest I get in the way.” Despite his words, it sounded like 'you win this round'.

James, the eyes of every agent glued to his back, went to the elevator and as he went in, and turned around, he waved at Neal. It couldn't be a coincidence that his shirt sleeve slipped down to reveal red scratch marks.

“We need to catch him,” Jones snarled, “he made a fool out of us!”

“He's good, but we're better,” Peter agreed.

“As long as you have no prove and hard evidence, you can't go arrest him. I received a call from my superiors and they want to ignore this until it goes away – either if we make it go away or the Trickster stops. I don't need to say which alternative I'd prefer.”

“Why? Why are they protecting him?” Diana asked.

“I feel the rumors are true, he has some dirt on them, and it's apparently big enough that they are willing to let this just slide.” Neal was shocked. What could he know that the bureau would keep quiet? Just how many secrets did this man know?

“He stole millions!”

“You are under strict order to go by the book, no fast lanes, no short-cuts. Understand? I like it as much as you do, but our hands are tied.”

Hughes walked back to his own office, they saw how he furious he was.

“Can we bring in Rathaway for questioning?” Neal asked.

“That should be fine, let's... I know where he's going to strike next.”

“How, Peter?”

“I was having breakfast with El, but I was called away before I could finish the newspaper, but there was something.....there.”

 

Peter had loaded the news site on his pc.

“The Rathaway's are going to throw a party, and despite rumors about this being canceled after the theft tonight, 'Osgood and Rachel Rathaway are proud to announce that they will not be deterred from throwing this exclusive gala,” The article went on to say how rich and so altruistic the Rathaways were, but the agents were only interested in the time and place.

“I want a team at the party, and one outside. We'll catch him red-handed, then they will have their proof. No matter what dirt he has, this will count.”

 

After talking to Mr Rathaway on the phone – more like getting yelled at by Mr Rathaway - he grudgingly agreed to let the FBI in, provided they blend in. Peter politely refrained from reminding him that he couldn't have refused anyway. “I hope this won't cause a scandal, we don't need any more of that.”

Before Neal could ask what past scandals the Rathaways had been involved in – probably to do with their son, the criminal – Mr Rathaway had hung up.

“The teams are ready, all at their places. We have extra security at the power generator and all exits. He must be mad to try anything here.”

“I'm counting on him being just that. He's arrogant and believes he's smarter than anyone else, he'll show, just to piss us off.”

Peter presented Neal with a watch. “Very James Bond.”

“It's a recording device. If he's there, get him to talk.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“I believe that pride comes before the fall, he will be his own undoing.”

“So you're counting on him being too smart for his own good?”

“Worked for you, Neal.”

“Don't compare me with him, please.”

Neal and Peter got out of the car.

 

The Rathaways were rich beyond belief, and Neal's fingers itched if he just thought of what treasures might be hidden in the house. Other people had a summer home, the Rathaways had an East coast come, west coast home, winter home, home and a cabin at a lake. They owned the lake, of course.

The mansion was grand, early 20th century architecture, and limousines swarmed to it like moths to the light. Neal could spot the FBI agents from a mile away, so he supposed James could, too.

But, he was convinced James was going to show.

“Do tell your agents to blend in better, this is so embarrassing. We're being treated like criminals.”

“Mr Rathaway, please, with the utmost respect. We are merely observing.”

“Can you at least tell me who it is that you are looking for? “

“Hi, Agent Burke,” a voice to his left said. Peter turned around and saw a young man, in his early thirties, with wavy blond hair and sky blue eyes. It took Neal a second to realize, but...

“James?”

“Hi Neal. Are you bothering pops over here?”

“For the last time, do not call me that in public. Or private. And no, you're not allowed to use synonyms, so no dad, daddy, poppa, my old man. In fact, don't talk to me. I thought you were busy with work anyway, a respectable job that has long hours.”

James smiled impishly. “I got suspended, isn't that wonderful? All the more time to spend with my best beloved.”

“Only you can make a disaster sound positive.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Of course you would,” Mr Rathaway said exasperated, “I'll never understand why my son can't see that you're just criminal scum who only uses him for his money.”

“I'm pretty,” James offered and winked. He looked years younger without the glasses, and suddenly....different. It didn't seem possible, but with that little detail changed, he was a whole different person.

Mr Rathaway walked off with a “Rachel, your good for nothing son-in-law is back!”

 

“You won't get away with this,” Peter said grimly.

“Get away with what? I don't recall being accused of a crime.”

“We know you're planning something. And we will catch you in the act.”

James leaned close. “I'd like to see you try.”

“My men have you surrounded”

“Please, I can spot your FBI agents easily. Here's one,” he pointed at an agent in an elegant purple dress, “here's another, my god, that one isn't even trying, is he, and there, and here, and the one back there as well.”

“I suppose you expect me to be impressed.”

James face turned dark and a thin sharp grin cut through his expression. He laid an arm around Peter's shoulder and gestured with the other towards various people.

“That man is cheating on his wife, with this woman over there. This gentleman is in deep debt but he like to keep up appearances. This one is dying, another adulterer, oh check out the guy in the gray tux, he just stole this lady's purse. Isn't one of your men going to interfere?” He was so close to Peter, right up in his face, daring him to react.

“This is a game to you?”

“Everything is. And it's an easy one, too. Don't you agree Mr Daddy-Issues?” He looked at Neal menacingly. “Say hi from me to your friend, little orphan Annie.” He turned back to Peter.

“People, Agent Burke, are like glass. And they break just as easily,” he continued, popping the k sound. He whispered something in Peter's ear which made him pale.

“I don't care what my boss said, you're going down,” Peter raged.

“You can't touch me, the boss said not to touch me.”

“You don't get to hide behind them, not for me.”

“Is that what the great Trickster has come to?” Neal intervened, “cowering in a cage he himself crawled into?”

Suddenly his demeanor changed. He whipped around to Neal, voice containing barely concealed rage. “You? YOU dare say that to me? Out of the two of us, which one is wearing the bureau's LEASH? Go, dog, back to your master, run to daddy.”

Hartley appeared to James' right and put a hand on his chest, holding him back.

“He's not worth it, babe, he's not worth it. We got what we came for, let's go.”

“You're not going anywhere.”

“Oh really? I think my friend Mr Smokebomb is going to disagree with you.”

 

There was a loud bang and a cloud of smoke poured from a table.

“Freeze!” Peter yelled and all the agents were already closing in, but it was too late. It was like James had donned an invisibility cloak, he was nowhere in sight.

“Hartley! Hartley!” a woman called, “where's my son? Hartley!”

That was the start to a chorus of wails, calls and screams.

 

“Peter, outside, he's going to run!” Neal urged Peter on and they stumbled outside, where they could just hear a car's engine roar and jump to the side as it sped by.

Peter cursed, and ran to his own car. Neal could just get in before Peter took off.

“Peter!” Neal yelled as Peter ran a red light.

“He has shaken off everyone, but us, we won't stop now.” Peter took a sharp left, Neal was pressed into his seat.

“Why don't you call for backup?” Neal asked as the seat belt slammed against his chest.

“Tried it, it doesn't work. I bet while the Trickster was at the party and distracting us, his little friend sabotaged your comms. Be glad the accelerator still works.”

Neal was used to the rush of adrenaline and high speeds, but he was beginning to get sick.

“I bet he'll try the air port, get out of the country fast, he'll turn at the next block and-”

“No, Peter, he's heading towards the harbor,” Neal recognized, “ Let's pretend that he lost us. Fall back a bit, we can catch him red-handed.”

Peter turned off the lights, and fell back behind a delivery van. They could just spot the car entering into a small path and then stopping. Peter drove a block further and then got out. He wanted to say something, for Neal to stay back, but he wasn't having any of this.

 

“I'll call for back-up, and you-” he reached for his cell, but couldn't find one.

“That bastard! He stole my phone!” Neal fished for his, and gave it to Peter. “No signal? Just our luck. I'll send a text with our location”

They sneaked closer, Peter with his gun in hand. James and Hartley had stopped in an open, empty place and-

“Wait!” Peter hissed and grabbed Neal's shoulder and held him back.

 

Not a second too soon, someone was ...clapping? Yes, slowly clapping, and judging from the sound, it was coming nearer.

Hartley, with a sports bag in each hand and one on his back, looked around nervously. James had apparently anticipated this.

What sort of getaway was this?

Had someone staged an ambush? Who?

“Stop hiding in the shadows, you're not fooling anyone here,” James said and he sounded vaguely annoyed.

A deep chuckle sounded, and it sent shivers down Neal's spine.

“I should have known that those tricks wouldn't work on you.” The voice was deep, with a strange melody and an accent Neal couldn't just place. It flowed like honey, but Neal couldn't deny that there was an undertone to it that was deeply upsetting.

“I did what you asked,” James offered.

Could it be? Was this man, who was slowly walking towards the light, the real power behind the throne, letting the Trickster dance like a jester?

“And you performed admirably. With too much juvenile pranks for my taste, but you got the job done.”

James nodded to Hartley who set the bags on the floor gently.

“Sorry I couldn't cover everything with cash, but those New York fencers are so squeamish, I guess you'll have to carry a bit more weight.”

“Everything is in order?”

“Do you think I'm stupid enough to do everything perfectly up to this point and then screw up by being ten thousand bucks short? I even included a little extra, a small statue that caught my eye, because I anticipated you were going to invent some interest rates.”

The man stepped finally into the light, and Neal let out an involuntary gasp. Tall, with pale blond hair and a preference for green suits? Nero. Neal didn't think this was his real name, but that man had enough charisma, he might as well have been a Roman emperor. Back in the office, and at the party, James had seemed like a shark in a pool filled with normal fish. But compared to this guy, he seemed small and almost harmless.

 

“We thought this guy was dead,” Peter whispered, “my god, he's alive.”

 

“Don't be disappointed if I don't take your word for it.”

“You're smart.”

“You're despicable.”

Nero chuckled again, and it was a sound devoid of any amusement.

“Your freedom is worth 25 million, you should be flattered.”

“My face may show disgust, but deep down I'm cartwheeling. I want nothing to do with you, and I expect you to honor our deal.”

“There's nothing I respect more.”

“Good. I'll complete my half then.”

James crouched down to open the bags, allowing Nero to see their contents. He seemed content, he nodded. “And the last thing.” James stood up again, and turned to face Hartley. His grin was impish.

“No witnesses,” he said softly, pulled a gun from his back and shot Hartley. The shot rang out impossibly loud, and Hartley crumpled to the ground. Peter rushed out from their hiding place, pointed his gun at James and bellowed at him to drop the gun. James didn't seem surprised to see Peter, or really bothered by a lethal weapon shoved in his face.

“Wow, that was stupid,” he observed.

Cold metal was pressed to Neal's neck and he raised his hands in surrender. He was herded towards the others. He couldn't see the person threatening him, but people in black suits came from all directions. Apparently Nero had planned ahead. The goon behind him shoved him towards James and the body, and trained his gun on Neal.

“You didn't manage to shake them before you got here?”

“You set the time limit, I figured you could dispose of them.

“You monster!” Peter yelled, “you shot your own partner in cold blood!” James didn't seem disturbed by that in the slightest. The impish smile was still on his face, but it looked more creepy than anything.

“It's not as if he was the first. Or will be the last, realistically speaking. Pity though, he was just like I want them: naïve, too trusting and most importantly, filthy rich.” Suddenly he seemed so ugly again, so cruel. Peter wanted to speak up again, but Nero motioned with his head slightly, and one of the goons hit him over the head with his gun, and Peter fell down, and stayed down.

“How can you be so heartless?!” Neal cried.

“I could tell you a story about a bad childhood, and abusive parents, but in reality? I like games, and I always win, and losers don't matter to me.”

With both James and Nero looking at them with the same creepy grin on their faces, it made Neal's stomach drop. Where was that back up? He needed to buy them more time, he needed to keep them talking.

“I thought Nero hated you and wanted nothing more than to see you dead, why are you working for him?”

“Oh, you got it all wrong,” Nero replied to Neal's surprise, “I want him defeated, and utterly humiliated at my feet. Killing him would have been...inelegant. Not worthy of my time. And now I made him give up his last protection, break off all ties, kill a man, and all for some little trinkets I have no real need off.” His eyes were eerily green. “Isn't that far better?”

Neal saw James look at Nero with pure hatred.

“Of course, killing him was tempting, and it would have been so easy. A sniper here, or an assassin there – he would have been dead long ago. But it would have been too easy. Killing is so petty. I can do much worse. Everyone can kill, everyone can end a life. But to control it, to crush it, to warp it to your design – that takes skill. That is what I delight in. I have absolute power over one man, and he knows it, he is the cleverest man I know, he has beaten me once, and now he's helpless. Everything in him wants to do the opposite of what I want, but he has to listen to me. That is true power.”

Neal could only tear his gaze away from Nero with great effort, the man had something almost hypnotic about him. James was trembling almost imperceptively, his face in a blank mask that revealed no emotion. Nothing shone outward. But then he opened his mouth, and something did come out, four words, and with them came all his anger, and disgust and something that Neal would almost call desperation.

“I have done enough.”

Nero chuckled, and this time Neal did shiver.

“Consider the deal fulfilled.”

 

Three of the henchmen picked up the bags next to James and the dead body of his lover? Friend? Victim? And walked with them past Nero. He had probably a car or maybe even a boat there, hidden in the harbor. Neal was thinking frantically how to get himself and Peter out alive, maybe Nero wouldn't be interested in them, maybe he'd kill them because as he had just said, killing was easy. Maybe James could – but James was the Trickster, and a monster. Neal could count on maybe a bullet from him, not more.

A piercing wail rang through the air – the sirens on arriving squad cars and two SWAT vans.

So the backup had received their message!

 

Nero spat some curse and in unison the henchmen turned their guns on James. Neal couldn't tell who shot first, but James went down immediately. Then they turned to him and Peter, only one second before the inevitable, when the cavalry had come.

A dozen and more cops shouted at the goons, weapons trained at them, they were going to be taken out if anyone tried anything. Neal had never been so glad at the sigh of policemen with guns before. While these men were being disarmed, a second team of agents went after Nero who had fled the scene.

It felt like awakening from a long dream. Neal was dazed, probably in shock – being a second away from getting shot at gunpoint was not something he was accustomed to. And there were two bodies to his feet, one with a bullet through his heart, and the other through his head. Red was flowing from them. Neal only dimly realized that Diana had come, and was trying to lead him away.

“No, where's Peter? Is Peter okay?”

She smiled, and it was the best thing he had seen all week. “Paramedic's looking at him right now, looks like he has a concussion and one hell of a headache, but he's had worse.” He hugged her, and she hugged back. But then she was called away by someone, and he was left standing alone. Behind him, the goons were put in handcuffs and into a van. Agent were coordinating the people here, some were yelling into their walkie-talkies. It all faded into background noise for Neal. He stepped close, unable to stop himself, the horror was too great. He felt a tinge of betrayal, but mostly sadness.

 

James lay on the ground, leather jacket opening to reveal a bullet proof vest. Apparently he had planned ahead, but not far enough. There was a big red stain on his forehead, and a trail of blood at his mouth. His eyes stared unseeing in the air. Neal covered his mouth, it was too horrible. He felt sorry for him, somehow. The Trickster had turned out to be a monster in employ of a monster, but Neal felt pity. But what he had told Peter was true, no more so than ever: he would not end up like this.

The END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Epilogue follows, please read on


	8. Epilogue

Peter was being checked out by a paramedic. The leader of the second team, the one in pursuit of Nero, went over to him.

“Thank you, Agent Morillo, this was perfect timing. I had almost no hope that the back-up would arrive in time, but you came.” Peter thanked him, and grimaced when the motion of sitting up straight caused his headache to flare.

“Back up? I'm no back-up. We were tipped off that a crime boss on our list, Nero, was here, so we came here guns blazing with every agent we could find.” Morillo looked confused, but only a bit. He probably thought that the bump on Peter's head was the cause for the mix-up.

“But...then you didn't get my message? Who called you?”

 

 

“I did.” Neal did an involuntary jump back as James' eyes suddenly snapped open and he sat up, in one fluid graceful motion. “I do have a habit of calling the cops on his trail whenever I see him.” He stretched his arms and popped his spine.

“You're dead,” Neal said, not sure himself if it was a question or a statement.

“As if,” James retorted and got up. He smiled brightly, and was now every bit the young man Neal had seen back at the hotel room.

“You planned this,” Peter realized and walked up to him, vibrating with anger, “you planned the whole thing.”

“Gosh, what tipped you off?” James wore a shit-eating grin. This was the Trickster, perhaps now for the first time since Neal had seen him. He reached into his pocket, Peter tensed and reached for his gun, “please, it's a handkerchief, I don't want the blood to dry.”

With a few strokes, his face was clean and he looked normal again. Sharply-dressed, with a grin on his face and a look that said 'come on, challenge me, I dare you'.

“I should shoot you, right here and now,” Peter said.

“What for?” James retorted and cocked his head, smiling an infuriating smile. Then he went over to his dead lover – if he had been that much to him – and said “Quit playing the drama queen, Piper.”

And just like he had, Hartley rose from the dead again. “God, this suit is ruined! Remind me to never listen to one of your plans that begins with 'here, hide this blood pack in your pocket'.”

“Noted.” James reached down to pull Hartley to his feet and smiled at him. He looked impossibly young, and without the glasses, he looked...right. They had been an act all along.

The agent who had been standing next to Peter came over, his face comically frozen with his mouth open.

“Ah, Agent Morillo, how's the promotion?” James said and winked.

“No.” Morillo replied.

“...that's an answer, but not to my question. But I think I can answer for you, you meant to say 'oh no, you didn't engineer this, you did not make the FBI hire me, you did not make them transfer me to New York because I was the one cop who would go after Nero faster than a speeding bullet. No, no, no, please tell me you weren't behind this all.' And yes, I was. No need to thank me.”

Both Morillo and Peter pulled out their handcuffs.

“Ah-ah-ah,” James said and took a step back, “you don't want to do this.”

“Oh, I disagree, I really really want to put you in cuffs,” Morillo replied.

“I meant 'want' in the sense of 'wow, you're going to regret this once the boss finds out that you tried to arrest me'.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Well, duh. But I figure that I owe you a story, how it really happened.”

“Let's talk at the office,” Morilla suggested, “I can't shake the feeling that you'll try to run the second I let your out of my sight.”

“Come on, that happened once. Twice.”

“Seven times,” Morillo countered. He stepped right next to James and grasped his arm, from the looks of it, a lot tighter than he would have had. “Let's walk to my car.”

“Can I turn on the siren?”

“One more word and you'll ride in the trunk.”

Hartley shook his head softly, smiled and followed them.

 

Neal had still not gotten over people coming back from the dead yet.

“Do you understand what's going on?” he asked Peter.

“No, but I have a concussion I can blame that on, you don't have that excuse. Tell Diana and Jones to give us a ride back, I want to hear this story desperately.” Neal didn't even try to suggest to Peter that he should go to a hospital.

“I could drive,” he offered.

“Not a chance, Neal.”

 

The drive was spent in stony silence. Neal wanted to ask a thousand questions, mind reeling, but he knew that no one here had the answers he needed. He wasn't sure what was real, what had been an act and what he was supposed to have suspected of being an act while it was the truth and – it was too confusing.

They pulled in just after Morillo and his two passengers. When they walked to the office and into the elevator, he could hear James and Hartley bicker at each other, although it was all in good nature.

“You're picking up my dry cleaning bill.”

“Come on, your family's loaded.”

“It took everything I had to convince my parents to play along with your charade. Did you hear her say 'Oh, Hartley, where's my son, Hartley!' Thank god she never tried to pursue an acting career.”

“Your dad was decent enough.”

“That wasn't an act, he just had to replace the name Earl with yours, and the speech was perfect.”

“Earl? You're still dating that brickhead? I know that tall, dark and handsome is your type, but he's so stupid, he asked me once why we named a planet after a candy bar.”

“I happen to like him, thank you very much.”

Ah, so that had been an act. Albeit one they were probably intended to find out, since it had been Agent Morillo who had told them about what was in the sealed records, and James had been involved there somehow.

Morillo brought them to Hughes' office who started at James disapprovingly, who in return smiled beatifically. “Take a seat,” Hughes said and gestured for them all to sit down. James sat on his chair like it was a throne, like he had always intended to end up here.

“Let me say, first of all, that I'm sorry for the deception. I won't say that I didn't enjoy parts of it, but at a certain point it had to get ugly, and I had to convince you that I was a villain, a monster, even. I said things that were hurtful, and for that I apologize.” He took a breath, and looked sincere. Neal of course wanted to believe him, but since he had seen how easily James could change moods, he didn't know if that was genuine or another mask.

“I suppose I should start at the beginning. The very beginning. Morillo, you know most of it, you can look out of the window or something. I left home, came to the big city and wanted to make a name for myself. And that name, was Trickster. I was involved in some petty crimes, no I won't even say allegedly, I really did stupid stuff. But that was technically as a minor, so no persecution there. Then I fell in with a bad crowd, but I loved it. Piper and I worked together on some jobs, but it was mostly Robin Hood style stuff. But the Trickster name thrived, even without me. And then, a lot of things happened very quickly, it went out of control, and my friends, well, they died. They got in over their heads and paid the price. I was desperate, wanted to do something. After some digging, I found out who was responsible for their murder, an Italian mafia lord named Nero. Nero is...a monster, to say the least. What I wanted was payback. I had heard about some meeting he was organizing, and I was going to be there.”

“As our informant,” Morillo continued, “Jesse came to us a few weeks before the big meeting was going to take place. He had gotten himself an invite, and offered us a deal: he'd go there, find out everything he could and then blow the whistle. We would swoop in, take Nero and his whole organization down, not only cut off the head of the snake, but kill the whole damn thing. In turn, Jesse would receive a clean slate and a new start at the agency. That was about three years ago. So, we sent Jesse off, and waited for his call.”

“I delivered, and Nero's organization went down. He himself died in a fire when his mansion burned down. Or so we thought, at first.”

“We made up some paperwork, and Jesse came to work for us. Of course we couldn't tell anyone that a known criminal had suddenly become an FBI agent, as much as we couldn't tell anyone that this man was responsible for bringing down a whole crime network, there would have been too many questions. So we dissociated him from the Trickster name, pretended that this was another man, another group of people. And most of the Trickster crimes had really been committed by other people, it was easy to bury the original ones beneath the fake ones.”

“This went on for some time, and no one suspected a thing. Only a handful of higher-ups and Morillo knew what had gone down in Europe. But a few months ago, I was contacted by Nero. He was alive, and he wanted revenge. He had bought the lie, he had thought that I had run to the FBI for protection, and that I was living in fear from him. And, he made me an offer: I could buy my freedom from him for 25 millions. And, again, I went to the FBI and told them about his deals.”

Hughes cleared his throat and continued.

“We asked him to play along, to lure Nero out in the open and to bring him down for good. It had been quiet around him, he was presumed dead and all, but his name still bears great weight, we couldn't risk him starting up something new in the USA. Jesse would commit crimes to get the money, would pretend to spiral out of control, and the bureau would go after him and find Nero by coincidence.”

“You knew about this?” Diana asked.

“Not from the start, I was only let in on the secret after you had already suspected him. I was instructed to let him go, so I did. But I have a few friends in high places, and when he was on the way to the meeting place, and suddenly a squad of agents rolled out, I got another phone call, explaining the whole story.”

“Why wasn't I told?” Morillo demanded to know.

“To minimize any possible suspicion about our past involvement, I would guess,” James said, and Hughes nodded.

“It was supposed to look like Jesse had revealed his true colors, and since you would know that that was an act, you were kept out of the loop.”

“That was some kind of acting,” Neal said, admiration creeping back into his voice, “you were an innocent man pretending to be a criminal pretending to an innocent man pretending to be a criminal. And we all fell for it.”

“That just made my brain hurt,” Peter admitted, “although I blame the concussion.”

“Sorry about that as well. Better a blow to the head than a bullet, huh?”

“About that-” Peter interjected, “blanks? You pretended to shoot your friend...why?”

“I feared that if I didn't do it, Nero would. No sense in shooting a corpse. And it further convinced him that he had won completely.”

“And how did you manage to shoot yourself so convincingly?” Neal asked.

“That was risky, I had to get off the first shot and just drop to the ground. With all those henchmen, no one could be sure that one of their friends hadn't hit me, and with the police coming, they had more pressing matters than to make sure.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Diana said.

“See?” James turned to look at Hartley and point at Diana, “she gets it.”

“Next time you need a partner, go ask her.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Not a chance,” Diana retorted.

 

“But, “ Neal began, “how did you commit these crimes? How did you pull those off?”

“Ah, that is my favorite part, my tricks! Of course, in exchange for ratting out Nero – again, I could call in some favors. Mainly immunity for one very special friend of mine. I won't name names, but she had a rather wild past as a thief. Before she had a kid and settled down. And I called Piper, my old friend, to help me with the charade, so that I'd have a believable excuse for all the little things that didn't add up. At first, you were supposed to stumble over his sealed record, after all. While I was in Chicago, working late and keeping my agents with me for the best possible alibi of all times, my friend robbed the gallery, lowering herself through the window, cutting open the glass case with a diamon device, stealing the necklace and retreating, but not before triggering the alarm on purpose. The silhouette and faked call were my idea, but I left the execution to my friend Piper. He really has a knack for impersonating voices.”

“That still doesn't get rid of the tapes,” Jones pointed out.

“And that's the beauty of the plan, since we were working for the FBI, we had an opportunity no other thief has: access to the crime scene as official law enforcement. Me as an agent, and my friend as a CSI tech. She went to get the tapes and 'found' them already tampered with. I believe you met her even. Of course she was wearing a mask and a hazmat suit and could have been anyone underneath, but she wasn't anyone, she was...my cat burglar.”

“Is that your ex?” Hartley asked in disbelief, “she is, isn't she? I should have known that was her, you wouldn't shut up about her then.”

“Piper, you're interrupting, and you're ruining a perfectly good mysterious story. As I was saying, we could access the crime scene any time we wanted and either place or remove evidence that would point to me.”

“That was the first robbery, but what about the second?”

“As you remember, Piper was at the party. So was she. I sneaked in to cut the power, they caused a commotion while I ran off with the pieces. And she came back to get rid of the evidence.”

“But we interviewed the guests, “ Neal said, “did we encounter her?”

“I doubt it, she was pretending to be ...an escort.”

“And you did interview me. After the robbery, I met with James and had to come up with an alibi. The first night we just went to my apartment and made a lot of noise, the second we went to a bar and tried to stick out as much as possible.”

“But the jewelry store, how did you do that?” Hughes asked.

“We played the part of the young graffiti artist.”

“We?” Peter inquired.

“For two weeks, I had to dress up in baggy pants and pretend to be a teenager, vandalizing the street, so that when the graffiti artist showed up again that night, he wouldn't rouse suspicion," Hartley said, sounding embarassed.

“But that night I took over his part, so that my theory of the fake graffiti artist as, well, true.”

“Hand on a second, the two guys in the bar said you had been there until 2am, which is hours after the robbery had been committed.”

“They were tipsy, so we challenged them to pool, lost on purpose – don't give me that look, it was totally on purpose – paid for a lot of drinks and just manipulated their watches and the clock in the bar. They were convinced it had been 2am when we left.”

“So, you got yourselves an alibi, an opening and than what?”

“That was probably the riskiest part of the whole operation.”

“Aside from you shooting me,” Hartley remarked,

“my friend had to sneak in just after the guard had slipped and before the next one would come. She hid behind a counter, grabbed what she could get and hid again. For about 10 minutes.”

“I think I understand,” Neal said, “when the police came, quickly and with all resources because they suspected this to be the third robbery, she pretended to be a CSI tech and just walked out with the rest of them.”

“Good, well done!” James said, smilingly.

“So, we had the pieces that we were going to 'fence', we knew that Nero was waiting for me, but I needed to convince him that he had won, that I had burned all my bridges, that I had been defeated. The Rathaway party had been planned for a month, and it was the perfect cover. And this time, we didn't even need to steal anything, we just needed to look very suspicious and then run off to the harbor, making sure not arrive with a string of 10 cop cars behind us.”

“You managed to lose everyone but us,” Peter said, “and you stole my phone and sabotaged my comm unit so that we couldn't call for help.”

“Yes, I had a feeling you wouldn't give up, but I couldn't let you call for backup while on the road, that would have arrived too early. I turned off your cell until we had arrived so they wouldn't track me.”

“But my anklet,” Neal interrupted him, “why did no one think to trace it?”

“Because,” Hughes answered, “if an agent who was not on the Nero task force had called and asked for the data, the computer would have had an unfortunate crash and would be out of order. We knew where the meeting was going to take place, we just had to time it perfectly.”

“Wasn't that a huge risk? One minute earlier or later, and we could have all been killed!”

“I was orchestrating that,” Hartley spoke up, “since no one was looking at me, I was free to contact the response team. I had the text message all typed out, all I needed to do was press 'send'.”

Neal said out loud what everyone was thinking. “Wow. That was awesome!”

“Reckless and stupid,” Peter added, “risky and dangerous” Diana added, “but undeniably cool,” Jones added.

“What? It was.”

 

James laughed, and it was not restrained, not polite, not like Agent Jesse; but not cruel, not cackling, not dark and twisted like the man he had been on the pier, not wicked and with just a hint of steel like the man standing in Neal's apartment, not shy and small like in the hotel room, this was free.

And it was one of the most beautiful sounds Neal had ever heard. James' eyes seemed to shine from within, and suddenly the whole room seemed brighter.

The END

 

The real Epilogue

 

Neal was too keyed up to relax, so after he had finally gone home, he called Mozzie. Mozzie was of course still awake and had heard about how the Rathaway party had gone up in smoke...literally. Neal told him to come over for the story of a lifetime. 20 minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and Mozzie came with wine, some of his stupid cheese and open ears.

Neal told him the whole story, from beginning to finish, and Mozzie listened enraptured.

“That was the best story I ever heard.”

 

Peter was under the care of Elizabeth who hugged him tight. He was sorry for scaring her, but this had been relatively minor, he would be fine. She had to wake him every couple of hours to make sure he was okay, but that was bearable.

And tomorrow, after breakfast, he could tell her the whole story.

 

Morillo had been held up by Hughes who wanted a more detailed story about the original Nero bust. Morillo complied, after he had called his wife and asked for permission to stay away for a day longer.

 

Hartley drove to his parents and reassured them that he was fine. He really should have changed beforehand.

 

The next morning, all the guards that had lost their jobs would find a job offer waiting for them from government facilities. With improved benefits and a hefty increase in salary.

 

As for James, he went to visit a certain ex of his. Maybe. Possibly.

 

 

 

The Secret Ending

Much too early, at least for Neal's taste, and for Mozzie's, too, judging from the grumpy sounds coming from his couch, there was a knock on his door. Neal dragged himself over and opened it. James was there, and he looked entirely too cheerful and refreshed for this time of day, especially considering what he had gone through the days before.

“Morning!” he said and went inside, “morning friend Mozzie.”

Mozzie shot up, desperately trying to smooth out his shirt. “Morning to you as well. It's...I know I have said this before, but it's an honor to meet you. The real you. This time. Hopefully.”

James laughed, “It's okay, it's not like I'm a king.”

“You're practically con men royalty,” Mozzie replied.

“You should print that on business cards,” Neal suggested, “what brings you here? If you're trying to get me as an apprentice, I'm tempted, but Peter already told me not to do that. Several times.”

“Sounds like Agent Burke. I heard he took a few days off to recover. And I'm here to say goodbye, actually.”

“Back to Chicago, to the same old job?”

“No, I'm flying to L.A to meet with my son Billy. That part was true.”

Neal felt sad to see him leave so soon. He had so many questions, but he suspected he'd never get answers, or at least never answers that wouldn't lead to him having more questions than before. And that was probably for the best, the Trickster was not someone who would let go of his secrets easily.

“What about Nero? Did they find him yet?”

“The FBI is looking but it seems that he managed to flee from the harbor. But I'm sure he will be found, sooner or later.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Neal, think a bit. Last night, there were so many questions that you asked me. But there was one that wasn't asked to my surprise. And I had such a neat answer for that, too.”

“What was the question?” Mozzie wanted to know.

“Why I stole a necklace from a Russian tsar, paintings and a statue from an art museum, and various diamonds from a Greek jewelry store? Why these items precisely?”

He was right, in all the commotion, their heads swirling with the truth, the real truth, no one had come to ask that question.

“And what is your answer?”

“I would inform you that the necklace was on loan from a Russian expatriate living in New York who makes his money on the fish market, that the art pieces were donated by a Chinese businessman who deals in the export business, and that the diamonds belonged to a Greek diamond dealer. Which is the truth. And if no one, absolutely no one was listening, I would maybe tell you that those three men are all very important men in their respective crime families, and that they received a tip on who has their valuable items now, and where to start looking.”

James looked serious. “He will always be on the run, never being able to stop, hunted from four powerful teams, each more ruthless than the next. He will not know peace for even one second of his life. I won.”

Neal flashed back to the harbor, to a cold night when a monster told him about why killing was easy and what proved more challenging. It chilled him to realize that James had won, by all accounts.

“Why? Isn't what you did enough?”

“It would have been, if Nero had called me and asked for money, like I told the bureau he did. That would have been an appropriate response.”

“I take it that is not what did then,” Mozzie guessed.

“He talked to my kid. Was waiting for him outside of his school one day, said he was an old friend of his dad. Billy ran to his mom and she called me the second she could. No one threatens my family. No one.” Images flashed before Neal's eyes - James in the laser grid, James at the harbor, and Nero, too. But that expression was gone as sudden as it had appeared.

Neal offered him a handshake. “It was ...great to meet you. You were fantastic. Best conman I have ever known.” James took his hand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you. You know, in another life, I'd probably ask you to run away with me, team up and be unstoppable.”

“And in this life?”

“You have a job you like, friends you love, and I have a kid, and ex-wife, an ex-girlfriend whom I owe so so much and two pissed agents back home whom I ditched and never let in on the secret. I should really call them. From the other end of the states, probably. Just to be sure.” He grinned.

“Take care, Neal. Goodbye, Mozzie.”

“Just, before you go,” Neal couldn't resist, “is there more that was just a lie for the bureau?”

“Maybe. Maybe I was tempted to join Nero at first, but couldn't bring myself to in the end because I was a coward. Maybe Piper and me are way to good at pretending to love one another. Maybe I disguised myself as an Italian aristocrat at the museum party. Maybe I lied about who my burglar was. Maybe I'm telling you all these maybe so you can never be sure about me. Maybe everything was a lie. Maybe nothing was. But isn't wondering the most fun?”

He winked and then he left.

 

Mozzie and Neal looked out the window to see him off.

They expected him to get into a taxi, or walk away. Neal held a faint hope that he'd see the mystery woman. Mozzie said he bet that the whole woman was a lie and that she probably never existed. Neal scoffed at that remark. And yet....what if?

He'd never know.

 

 

About what if....

if Neal could have seen James on the way to the airport, he would have seen that he got in a cab and let the driver take him there. And at the airport, he would have seen him get out, meet up with Hartley. He could have seen them embrace and then hold hands as they walked inside. If Neal had accompanied Diana to interview the guests, he would have recognized Thomas and Elizabeth O'Neill greeting them. If Neal had followed Jones to verify James' alibis, he would have recognized Hartley's neighbor standing there with a duffel bag. Or if he'd gone with Diana instead, he would have seen Leo and Calhoun from the bar; Leo talking to Elizabeth and Calhoun laughing at some private joke. Had Neal seen James off on his first visit, he might have even recognized the cabbie, who spoke with a thick Australian accent, arm slung around the shoulder of the supposed neighbor.

He would see the group laugh together, clapping each other on their shoulders, reenacting some things and make plans. He could have seen the security guard from the diamond store who had judged the color of the graffiti wrong joining them, behind him the other guard who had or had not called his colleague away from his post, who was carrying an alarming amount of bags for his girlfriend who had a toddler on her hip. And maybe he wold have seen the teenager with the spiky mohawk, baggy pants and paint stains on his finger tips come, too, at last.

And maybe he would have realized that Mozzie had been right, that there had been no mystery woman cat burglar, that all it took was the help of a few friends. Five of those had supposedly died. Maybe....possibly....but not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Got you!
> 
> It was a trick all along.
> 
> Special thank to Catwoman as knight-not-appearing-in-this-story
> 
> Did you find all the hidden Rogues in the story?  
> No? Better reread, there are clues to everyone....well, except Digger, sorry. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me til the end, I hope the reward was worth it :D


End file.
